


Fledgling

by JRGodwin



Series: Gods and Monsters [1]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Goblins, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV First Person, Post-Movie(s), Romance, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 115,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JRGodwin/pseuds/JRGodwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The only way for immortals to understand the fear of death is to experience it through the mortals we love." -Jareth</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was born of fire, billions of years ago in the shadow of a distant sun. I can move the stars because I'm the one who shaped them. But no matter how powerful my hold on magick and time, nothing can stop death.

_From small beginnings come great things._

-American proverb

* * *

0.

The only way for immortals to understand the fear of death is to experience it through the mortals we love. That is why, when I finally find her battered and frozen on the outer rim of the Fiery Forest, something parasitic throttles my heart as if seeking to rip it straight from my ribs. I believe this sensation is what the humans call terror.

My kingdom, strange as it is on a regular basis, becomes an alien landscape in wintertime. The tundra freezes, the trees crack, the animals hide. Even the sun fades, leeching all colour from the Earth.

That is how I manage to find her at all. The snow landscape stretches to the horizon, white and pure, yet … ah, there. Half-hidden beneath the emaciated trees, ebony and crimson stand out amongst all that white like an open wound, and the bottom drops out of my soul. _My Sarah._

I don't remember walking to her. Somehow I'm already at her side and I don't want to look, but I must, I must. The black feathers haven't fully melted back into the flesh on her face and hands – an amateur's folly. One arm is obviously broken, and a gash in the back of her coat has painted the snow red.

Despite the injuries and the botched transformation, she's beautiful; a half-frozen Icarus.

I'm shaking so badly that I can hardly remove my gloves – it's not the cold, my kind aren't affected by temperature as humans are – but finally the gloves are off and I'm feeling the pale column of her throat where it kisses the underside of her jaw. I know exactly where the pulse should be, having licked and teased it often enough when we make love.

When I feel the spark of life still beating there, the monster in my chest relaxes its stranglehold on my heart, just a little. Maybe I would cry, if I held with that nonsense, but I don't.

You don't make it long as the Goblin King if you don't have keen awareness of your surroundings, so I blame the giddy delirium for distracting me. I'm actually startled when Sarah moves beneath my hands and thickly murmurs, "Jareth?"

"Oh, my love." A broken sigh, a hint of reproach and not a little anger – some of it at her, most of it at myself. _I have failed to protect what is mine._

She shudders, finally cracking her eyes open against the harsh wind. "It's cold."

"Yes."

"Are you mad?"

"You might have told me," I say, and finally the anger bursts the dam, and I am shaking for a different reason altogether. "Though I suppose it wouldn't have changed anything."

"No," she murmurs, "it wouldn't. Jareth … Jareth, I flew." Sarah smiles, showing blood. I have kissed that darling mouth, and it has woken me in the mornings with its lovely lilting singing, and now it's filled with blood. My mind can't process the disconnect. "I flew!"

I finally look up. Tree branches overhead cant violently downward, as if a missile blew through them. I don't understand how my precious Sarah is still alive. They burn so quickly, humans, like candle flames. One second alight, the next a puff of smoke, and forgotten.

I was born of fire, billions of years ago in the shadow of a distant sun. I can move the stars because I'm the one who shaped them.

But no matter how powerful my hold on magick and time, nothing can stop death. It is the way of things. Life is change; death, the ultimate transformation. All the same, I'm left with a fierce desire to protect this little flame in my life, shield it against the slightest wind lest it be blown out. It will be blown out soon enough, I know, and then I will be here, cold and alone again.

I suddenly want to rage at her. _How could you do this? If you died, do you have any idea where it would leave me? Stupid, selfish girl!_ If she wasn't already grievously injured, I would shake her.

But instead I wordlessly reach under my cloak and unbuckle some straps, and my armor begins to fall off into the snow: first the chest guard, then the spaulders and vambraces, and finally the greaves. I can travel faster without them, and teleportation is a bad idea with mortal injuries. So rather than yell, I only tell her in a coaxing tone one reserves for kittens, children and the invalid: "Shhhhh, I'm taking you home."

Despite my gentleness, she cries out when I pick her up, and I realize I'm going to have to set that bone, a prospect that frightens me because it means putting her through more pain. "It's alright, Jareth," she says soothingly, surprising me. "It's … it was worth it. My God, I got to fly! I actually did it this time!"

 _This time._ There will be more times, I'm sure. "What bird?"

"That's the weird part. It didn't itch this time when I changed, I just let my form go and I … it … I became a raven. A raven! I got off the ground okay but that wind-" She coughs, and bless the gods, there's no blood, which means no punctured lungs. "-the wind started up and I couldn't fight it."

"Never fight the wind," I whisper, smoothing frozen hair from her eyes, then tucking her into the fold of my cloak. "You ride it, like a wave. You have to trust it, and let your body go, similar to when you transform."

She smirks. "Giving me tips now?"

I growl. "If you're going to act the fool, Precious, at least grant me the honour of ensuring you don't get yourself killed."

In response, she only smiles indulgently and tucks her head into the crook of my neck. The heat of her body folding into mine is almost painful in the pleasure it brings, like the bittersweet relief brought by sex.

The worst part is, I can't prohibit her from anything. I hold no power over her. If anything, I'm the one who set this chain of events in motion the day I fell in love with that odd, lonely child playing dress-up in the park, the day I gave her some of my powers. Our fate was sealed the night she defeated me with those damn words.

Startled, I glance back at the shattered branches overhead, at the blood-soaked ground, then at the woman in my arms who is, amazingly, still alive. _My kingdom as great_ …

If a mortal can share the power of a god, at what point does she shed her mortality? A candle flame is no longer a candle flame when it's swallowed up by a sun.

I hope. I wish. Gods can be born of flesh just as much as fire. It's happened before, though not often.

If she won't obey me (and I know she never will), I'll simply have to protect her better until I can ascertain what, exactly, she is becoming. Human lives are only supposed to be a hundred years at best. It won't take long to figure out what's really going on.

In the meantime, my little raven will continue to push the boundaries of physics, and apparently my sanity. Very fitting, given that ravens are curious birds and sworn enemies of owls.

My castle is not far, but the snow drifts are deep and my precious cargo can't be jostled. I tuck her firmly against my chest, hiding her from the wind, trying to avoid hitting her broken arm. She's already asleep, half-dead from exhaustion. I'll set that arm when we're home, and bandage that wound, and draw her a bath. Ever the villain, ever the slave.

* * *

_To be continued._

 


	2. The Champion's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I remember only snippets of the Labyrinth, but I do recall the Goblin King accusing me of being cruel. He was right: I *am* cruel.

_My shadow's shedding skin and  
_

_I've been picking scabs again._

_I'm down digging through_

_My old muscles looking for a clue._

-Tool

* * *

_I heard a definition once: happiness is health and a short memory! I wish I'd invented it, because it is very true._

-Audrey Hepburn

* * *

1.

Among all the horror stories that filter out of Japan after the earthquake rips that country apart, one report actually makes me smile.

A man named Hideaki Akaiwa, living in the port city of Ishinomaki in the northern prefecture of Miyagi, was at work when the earthquake hit. It was an 8.9 on the Richter scale, one of the strongest in recorded history. A colleague of mine – a graduate student from Morioka – said her office shook for an astounding three minutes. Japanese people are trained from elementary school on how to deal with earthquakes. They're used to living on a fault line, so when the Japanese get freaked out by a quake, you know it's bad.

But back to Mr. Akaiwa. Incredibly, the worst was not the earthquake but the tsunami that followed. It buried Ishinomaki in minutes, transforming the city (population:160,000) into a lake. 10,000 people were immediately listed missing, among them Akaiwa's wife and mother.

Most people would give up at this point, but not Akaiwa, whose response was to strap on scuba equipment and dive _**into the tsunami**_ to find his family. He swam through the submerged city until he found his house, where his wife was trapped on the upper floors and submerged up to her neck. He not only got her out alive but returned to the raging waters to find his mom. All survived.

The last news item I ever manage to find on Akaiwa reports that, days after the disaster, he is still leading rescue missions for survivors. When people can't (or won't) continue the search, Akaiwa gets his scuba gear and forges ahead on his own.

Some Australian newspaper has a photo of Akaiwa in a sweatshirt and army pants, the cuffs sealed with Duct tape. He looks like a hero, I think.

* * *

Full disclosure: the following story is completely true, except it's not.

Every school has the scapegoat, the kid that everyone picks on even if there's nothing wrong with him or her. Michael Jacobi was ours. By 4th grade, he'd gotten beat up so many times that you just sort of expected it, the same way you expected Oregon Trail Tuesdays.

This was before schools start taking bullying seriously. Back then, it was like, _What did he do to deserve it?_ Or, _It's just a part of childhood._ Or, _It'll toughen him up. You don't want him to be a pussy, do you?_ That's the adults talking, by the way. When even the grown-ups act like you deserve to be terrorized, you know the world's out to get you.

I saved Mike once from a group of kids who'd jumped him after band practice. Terry Arnoldi had Mike dangling against a locker. I didn't think about the consequences, just plowed Terry from behind. We all got detention for fighting, but I saved Mike. We became sort-of friends after that, which made middle school a little less frightening. It was easier, having an ally.

Actually, that whole last paragraph is complete bullshit. Here's the truth: I didn't bully Mike, but I didn't protect him. I think I was too scared of getting hurt, myself. I'm the weird girl who claimed to see fairies (though I stopped talking about that by 2nd grade, once I realized how unacceptable it was to see things). My social credit was already non-existent.

There was one time in 6th grade when Brett Lawrence broke Mike's nose. It was during gym class, and the adults said it was an accident, only it wasn't. Anybody who saw it happen knew it wasn't. I should have told someone. Mom was drinking by that time and working on a new movie, but Dad was around, and he would have believed me if I told him.

I didn't.

Mike's family moved to Florida the summer of 7th grade. A month later, he and his older brother John died in a car accident. A lady driving in the opposite direction, her Buick jumped the meridian and steamrolled them. Both boys died on the scene. Nothing the paramedics could do.

I cried when I read that. People deserve a fighting chance. It's only right. Unfortunately the world's not a fair place; Mike never had a fighting chance anywhere. Neither did his parents, I guess, because they lost both children in one day. Mr. Jacobi was a big name executive for a big name company – Sony or Virgin or something. After his boys died, he retired early, and he and his wife left Florida. I don't know where they went. I've scoured all news sources but never turned up anything.

For years, I sometimes pretended that I _**had**_ helped Mike when he most needed it. It sounds so stupid, so self-serving, I'm embarrassed to write about it here, but it's the truth. I pretended all sorts of stories where I stopped Mike's tormentors and we became friends.

During my freshman year of college, we were discussing the bullying epidemic in my Social Psych class, and I was halfway through my story about the time I jumped Terry Arnoldi when I suddenly froze, horrified, in front of a class of 40 people ... because I'd just remembered that I was lying. I'd relied so long on the stories that they'd somehow taken center stage in my brain as the truth. But I couldn't come clean to my class and look like an idiot and an asshole who lets kids get beat up, so I finished the lie and prayed no one would ever ask me about it again. Nobody ever did, so I suffered in grateful silence.

When I read about Hideaki Akaiwa, my 1st thought is: _This guy is a total badass_. My 2nd thought is: _I'm so sorry he wasn't around when Michael Jacobi needed help. This guy would have helped him._

* * *

People sometimes ask: _Sarah, why study clinical psychology?_ There are so many answers to that. The only one I have the time and patience to delve into today is this: the mind is fascinating. I'm not sure why astronauts want to spend all their time floating around up there when we have an endless universe right inside our own heads waiting to be explored – I would even say, _**desperately**_ waiting to be explored.

I mean, what causes someone to recreate their world, to make it more palatable? What happened to Mike Jacobi was awful, but I have to accept what I did and move on. Daydreaming about the what-ifs doesn't serve anyone. Mike's still dead, I doubt his bullies even remember his name, and I'm a grown-up now with a life of my own.

I want to understand the lies we tell ourselves and others. I have so many weird memories from childhood. I've had them for years, but frankly, after that humiliating gaffe in Social Psych, I began questioning everything I thought I knew, picking apart the tangled threads in an attempt to find the truth.

For example, the fairies thing: I know I had an overactive imagination in 1st grade, but still ... I remember seeing fairies. I think I'm remembering a lot of movies and they've somehow gotten enmeshed with my real memories.

Michael Jacobi: Already explained. I made up some fantasies to make me feel better about my inaction and cowardice.

The worst memory I have from childhood is one that I'm pretty sure happened, because it's so awful that I can't imagine the reason why I'd make it up. It was in 7th grade, the day after Halloween and Mom came home.

* * *

She'd been someplace called Majorca, working on a plum role the media said Meryl was regretting having passed up. The tabloids showed photos from red carpet events where Mom and Meryl looked like they were giving each other the side-eye, followed by anonymous commentary from "close friends" who said there were a lot of hurt feelings and cat fights going on backstage.

Mom thought the whole thing was hilarious. She said there were no fights, that Meryl had never been in the running for the movie at all. In fact, Meryl hadn't said a word to her in twenty years – she still hated Mom for stealing a boyfriend when they were just girls studying drama at Yale. It had nothing to do with a stupid role, Mom insisted, as if that made their enmity any better.

(Mom had such an expressive face that even when she told you something despicable, you couldn't help but be entranced. She had a gorgeous, mocking mouth that people said put Julia Roberts' to shame, and when she wore red lipstick, she looked like a nightclub singer in a 1940's gangster film.)

Anyway, whenever Mom came home from a movie, she always spent a few days doing what she called "decompressing". This meant sitting around in her robe drinking, reading scripts, and fielding calls from people in New York and Los Angeles. Sometimes strangers would filter through the house – adults I didn't know who wore designer clothes and talked on cell phones. I thought this was neat because I wasn't allowed a phone yet. Mom was all for it but Dad put his foot down and said I was too young.

That day, somebody let off a stink bomb in the gym so school got cancelled, and Cindy Myers' mother dropped me off at home. Mom was rehearsing her lines for a Broadway play she was doing in the spring. One of her actor friends was helping her, reading as the romantic lead. Jeremy was one of those chiseled gentlemen who, even at 12-years old, I was already wishing would look at me a certain way but I knew never would. I wasn't a head-turner like Mom was.

Reading lines shouldn't have been strange, but there was something about the way they jumped when I walked into the kitchen. Mom quickly removed her hand from Jeremy's arm, even though they were obviously just rehearsing. Something thick lay heavy in the air, something that didn't belong there.

I said nothing, just grabbed a peach from the fridge and went to do my homework, but I felt nauseous and I didn't know why.

Mom left us four months later, the same week she won her Oscar. The papers made a big stink out of it, calling her a bad mother (which she was) and a bad wife (which she was). A year later, the same papers had forgotten about her infidelity, and they published photos of her in a bikini on a yacht in the Keys. Jeremy was at the wheel.

I began hiding all the newspapers when they arrived and blamed it on the delivery boy. I would have gotten away with it, but Dad eventually found out what I was doing and made me stop. He said he appreciated the thought, but despite my subterfuge, he'd already seen the papers and he was alright. I didn't believe the last bit, but I didn't question him.

* * *

There remains a gaping hole in my life, a mystery I have never been able to solve. I keep circling back to it, the same way you can't stop tonguing a painful sore in your mouth. All paths return to the Labyrinth, as if every neural circuit in my brain is dead set on dragging me back no matter how much I try to focus elsewhere.

I can be doing laundry, buying eggs, jogging in the park, it doesn't matter, something will set my memory off. A small child moves in a way too reminiscent of a goblin. A TV ad sounds too much like something the dwarf said. The color of the sunlight outside in early fall, when the heat dies and the leaves turn: it's the same shade as the Goblin King's hair, thin as spider silk. Forgetting is futile. I feel like Sisyphus rolling his rock; no matter how hard I try redirecting my mind, I'm always returned to the beginning.

Insane, I know. I should write children's books. They'd be bestsellers. But the memories are so real that I question my health.

Guilt. Repressed guilt from my jealousy over Toby, and for mistreating Karen when she first arrived. But I can't imagine hating Toby so much that I'd wish him away to a monster. Right now Toby is in school and trying desperately to woo this girl named Katie Deng. He talks his head off about her to me, the little goober is so in love and trying not to show it. He has Karen's blond hair and Dad's toothy smile. If anyone ever hurt Toby, I would kill them.

I can't fathom a life without my brother. The idea of putting him in danger is ludicrous. And of course, it's only fitting I'd craft some elaborate story about rescuing Toby to make myself the hero again, just like I did with Mike Jacobi.

It's actually pretty sick. God, I hope I'm not becoming my mother.

I remember only snippets of the Labyrinth, but I do recall the Goblin King accusing me of being cruel. He was right: I _**am**_ cruel. There's a wicked irony in my teenage self projecting my shadows onto this imagined creation, this king. It's like I couldn't accept my sins, so I looked elsewhere for a villain, and lo and behold, I found one.

* * *

_To be continued._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story began as a one-shot vignette, but people asked for it to be expanded. Upon reflection, I realized just how deep this story actually could go, so I've decided to continue. I know the plot, how the story ends, and a few of the adventures that happen along the way, but I'm not sure how many more installments will be required to tell it all. It could be 2, it could be 20. I guess we'll find out together.
> 
> Hideaki Akaiwa is a real person. You can read more about his heroic exploits here: http://articles.latimes.com/2011/mar/17/world/la-fg-japan-quake-scuba-20110317


	3. The Villain's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lust I can play like a musician with an instrument. I don't know how to handle love. It's why I built the Labyrinth in the first place. Don't mistake this sudden epiphany for softness, mind you. I still plan on tying Sarah to my headboard.

_One, two! One, two!_

_And through and through_

_The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!_

_He left it dead, and with its head_

_He went galumphing back._

\- "Jabberwocky", Through the Looking-Glass

* * *

2.

I'm sure you won't be surprised when I tell you that your understanding of your world is woefully deficient. Perhaps this statement raises your hackles a bit. That's understandable (a more accurate assessment would be,  _I don't care_ ), but moving right along. As I was saying, your knowledge is lacking, so I'm here to catch you up.

Every human society shares certain characteristics regardless of place or time: an organised social order, functional differentiation, reverence for the dead. Add to that: mythical understandings of where you came from. A few modern conspiracy theorists attribute humanity's origins to alien visitors. This sounds ridiculous, although in truth it's not much different from the explanations that your race has used for thousands of years.

Many societies claim humans descended from the gods. Others say you sprang up from the Earth like flowers in bloom. Still others insist a divine creator shaped the first of you from mud, water, or rib bones, depending on who you ask.

Stuff and nonsense.

There is a particular sacred text among you that reads:  _Way yomer Elohim na'aseh adam beh'salmenu kidmutenu_ _._  "And God said, let us make man in our image, after our likeness." A note on the word  _Elohim_ _–_ this does not mean God (singular) but Gods (plural). A number of human scholars have said this clearly shows that Judaism (and later Christianity) hold roots in polytheism. Other scholars retort to this (quite correctly, I might add) that despite the plural, the rest of the grammar in Genesis still take the singular and therefore this pluralisation is nothing more than a case of  _pluralis excellentia_ _e_  or  _pluralis majestasis_.

In other words, this singular god is merely speaking in an elevated fashion typical of Yours Truly when we wish to make a point, give orders, or otherwise show our authority. (See what I did there?)

The Bible's original author was so close. There  _ **is**_ one god, and yet there are many, and all together, we shaped the universe and are constantly reshaping it all the time. If you cry that this doesn't make sense or that I'm being intentionally vague, well, you wouldn't be the first to accuse me of unfairness. In any case, paradoxes can and do exist.

Here is another biblical example that fascinates me: "Let there be light." Or, in the French:  _Que la lumière soit_ _._ _Y_ et the subjunctive doesn't exist in biblical Hebrew, not in the way an English or French speaker would recognize it, so the original Hebrew reads more like:  _There is light_. That's it. No command, no desire, just a statement.

Now, you could say this is a simple case of grammar rooted in a language that literally cannot use a subjunctive, but it makes you wonder: was this god giving an order, or simply stating a fact about what already was? Did He create the universe, or merely discover it? Is there such a thing as beginnings and endings, or just one continuous, cyclical inhalation and exhalation of a divine creator who will never be born and never die?

Being a lesser god, I've never created a universe, or a planet, or even a species. My specialty was stars and starlight, and even that doesn't make me terribly unique, for there were many gods contracted to create all those stars. Today, I have to settle more or less for glitter. It's a bit dull, but running a kingdom usurps my time – and to fully appreciate the destructive power of goblins, just imagine ruling a nation of coked-out toddlers.

We gods have our own stories about creation. You didn't know that, did you? Only our information is more accurate, given that we're a little closer to the limitless Source. This Source breathed out, and in that exhalation, everything was created. (This is actually quite similar to something written in Genesis, which again I find an impressive catch for a species that only recently discovered fire.) In that new space, pairs of gods set to work creating their own universes – this is whom Genesis was referring to as the Elohim. It  _ **was**_ one God, yet each God was made of a male and a female being, a divine marriage, twin flames, so you could say they were plural even if they weren't. Paradoxes again.

In each universe, little sparks danced to life, the first gods, and began carving out the details: the galaxies and planetary bodies and oxygen molecules and living things. These are the gods you typically read about in myths who sometimes take physical form and walk among you. I am one of those. It grieves me to say I'm not nearly as powerful or recognisable as someone like Apollo, though I  _ **was**_ a fertility god, once, before I fully settled into my role as the Goblin King. That was a most delicious job.

The closest I've ever come to creating a universe was … well, it's now, in the wake of that girl's destruction of my world. A decade is just a sneeze to a creature like me, but I have spent every second of every hour of every day of it rebuilding every facet of my kingdom. Along the way, I've discovered you need a strong back and a stronger will. I'm even rebuilding in my dreams, so sleep isn't a respite. On top of this, I've had to settle the rebelling goblin and chicken population. (A god of poultry, how low we have sunk.)

A decade is a long time in the life of a mortal. I need to finish this job soon so I have a chance at finding Sarah again. After the mess she's left me with, I have  _ **such**_ a strong urge to thank her, though I doubt she would appreciate my idea of thanks.

* * *

Didymus is giving me that special half-crazed look of his that indicates I've lost my mind, but he's both too polite and concerned about his own skin to say so. "Prithee, Sire, tell me truly: whither are we bound?"

We sit astride our mounts on the road. To our back lay the Goblin City's gates; before us, the wilderness. The Fiery Forest lays southeast, on the outer ridges of this world as it now exists. To the north, the bog. To the east, the desert. To the west, nothingness. It takes time to rebuild a world destroyed.

I consult a map I've found in my library – a relic from a Roman officer who once traipsed about my realm. Apparently he returned physically whole to his kin but died soon after from insanity. Traveling the worlds is not to be taken lightly, especially for humans. Their bodies aren't really made for it, not without extensive training and some awareness of where they're going.

The map depresses me. So much of my world is still gone, so much more to rebuild. At this point, do I even wish to do so? I could pack up, sneak out the back door, find some other world to colonise. My kind have done it before.

No. I have my goblins, who despite their idiocy I still look upon as my children. And I have a duty to take unwanted babies. Also, leaving would be a concession to Sarah's memory, a final defeat. Damn her. No, I have time left in the Underground, things I still must do before I progress to my next role, whatever that is.

Didymus is fidgeting in his saddle, and I realize I haven't answered him yet. "You wished to accompany me, good sir knight," I murmur, marking the map with a broken pencil I've fished out of my satchel. "Now is hardly the time for regrets."

The fidgeting worsens. Didymus has never forgotten (nor have I let him) that he's a traitor – though I suppose I shouldn't blame him overmuch. Sarah usurped the goodwill of the rest of my kingdom, after all, so why would Didymus have escaped unscathed?

I squint at the horizon, return the map to the satchel, and take up my reins. I say nothing to Didymus. He knows well enough to follow.

I guide us west, toward the void that hovers on the edge of my kingdom like a dark cloud. The land here is rocky and dry – even the recent rains refuse to touch this place – so it's in desperate need of my attention. I have spent the last year dividing my time between rebuilding the infrastructure of the castle itself and rehanging the stars in this world, so you could say I've been too occupied. I average an hour of sleep a night, and even in my dreams, I'm shaping lakes and mountain ranges and forests. Every day, I awaken exhausted and irritable, and even my eyeballs hurt.

We reach an outcropping of sand-colored rocks and beyond that lies nothingness: hovering shadows flecked with what appear to be stars but aren't. Not really. True stars are gaseous balls of flame. These sparks indicate rifts in the dimensions, usually harmless and requiring an extensive patching up. You can tell there's a problem if –

Oh. Oh  _ **shit.**_

I sharply turn my horse. "Nothing that requires my immediate attention, Didymus. Let us away."

The little fox is losing his edge. He doesn't question me, raise an eyebrow, anything. Normally, this would be worrisome. For now, it's a relief.

* * *

"Will you be going out again today, Your Majesty?" asks the liveried goblin who approaches us in the courtyard as we dismount.

"No, but I want a word with Cornelius, and supper brought to my rooms." I nod at Didymus. "You are dismissed." Again, no questions, just a nod of his furry head and a bow before hurrying off. I hand the reins off to the goblin and stride into the great hall, undressing as I walk.  _Crack!_  Two goblin valets literally appear out of thin air, frantically scuttling alongside me to catch the cloak and riding gloves I dump on their heads.

By the time I reach the central staircase, I'm almost running, taking three steps at a time.  _Poof!_  Now I hear Cornelius bustling along behind me. He has a very distinct walk, my butler, like a dog trying to shake a fly off its rump. Like a good servant, he doesn't speak. We hurry down the corridor and into my rooms, where I immediately busy myself looking through my desk for paper and ink. It takes me a sad, pathetic moment before I realize that I have no one to write to.

"I require utmost privacy for the next three days and nights," I murmur in Cornelius' general direction. "I wish to perform a spell to aid in the recreation of the river along the Eastern Gate. During that time, no one is to disturb me."

My butler doesn't blink. "Would Your Majesty like meals brought up after tonight?"

"No. No disturbances whatsoever. If the castle is afire, fix it yourself."

"Of course, sir. I shall send along supper shortly."

"Thank you, Cornelius."

He bows and waddles out, leaving me to my preparations. The first thing I do is pull down a long lacquered box from a shelf in my wardrobe. Inside, bound in black velvet and tied with red rope: a sword. It is unlike any sword you will find anywhere, forged by a 600-year old blacksmith in Ise Jingu, where it is said the goddess Amaterasu materialised in physical form. The human monks there care for the temple, and behind the scenes beat back the darkness that sometimes intrudes upon that world.

The blacksmith is famous for making swords in the old way, with a catch: it takes a full year to make each sword, folding and refolding the metal many, many times to create the blade's strength. Also, he refuses to deal with anyone who doesn't speak Japanese, which I do. You could call it a perk of my age and experience.

Into the blade I have inscribed symbols that would burn out the eyes of any living being untrained to use them. The spirit inside the sword is no picnic, either, which is why I keep the weapon bound and hidden away. When I hold it, even with the velvet wrap in place, my hands throb and I begin to sweat. The sword knows when it's being called to battle.  _Release me,_ it croons. _We are going to war. I can feel it._

 _Soon,_  I think soothingly – to the sword or to myself, I'm not sure. Maybe a little of both.

By that time, supper has arrived. A goblin enters, curtsies, and leaves a covered tray on my desk; alas, I have no appetite. I turn instead to my wardrobe, pulling on sturdy traveling clothes: leggings, tunic, boots, cloak, deerskin gloves with a wide cuff to protect my hands. When I finally unwrap the sword, I don't remove it from the scabbard, just thread it onto my belt. For good measure, I stash away knives on the baldric running across my chest. I have whispered magick into these knives before, so they'll eat away the flesh of an enemy, given the opportunity.

 _Should I bring bells?_ I glance at the closed door of my private office, where I store more weapons than some professional armouries.  _No … not for this._  This is going to be a quiet job. If I do it right, I'll be in and out, and my passage will not be noticed. If I  _ **am**_  noticed … well, let's just say even bells probably won't save me, or my kingdom, so it's a moot point. Ten years of breaking my back to fix the Underground, only to see it all undone tonight. I simply refuse to say it's not fair, but still.

The kitchen has sent up a splendid repast: carrot soup, looks like, and chicken in a creamy white sauce, the smell of which makes me ill. Cornelius must be trying to stuff me in preparation for the next three days, because he's added an entire loaf of black bread, a hefty chunk of hard yellow cheese, some cured pork, and a small bottle of wine from my private stores. If I didn't know any better, I'd say my butler knows I'm lying about my plans. The thought leaves me uneasy. I don't like being readable.

Into my satchel, I pack the bread, the cheese, the meat, and the wine, ignoring everything else on the tray. By this time, I have no other excuses, no other distractions. Time to go.

The writing desk draws my eye. I'm stalling. I know I'm stalling.  _Fuck it._  I sit and write a letter, sealing it with red wax and not a little glitter. Something to remember me by, I suppose. Across the front, in my rolling curlicue script:  _Sarah Williams._  I slip that under the door with a note ( _To be sent 3 days hence_ ) where I know a servant will find it. I should be back within that time to stop the letter; if not, all my worries are over, anyway.

At the last minute, I end up taking the bells. And an axe. Just in case.

* * *

Let us suppose that you were a jealous god whose humans had forgotten you. You could, theoretically, annihilate their city with a rain of destruction. It's been known to happen. Some gods farm out this nasty sort of work to lesser beings that we normally don't traffic with on a regular basis. Humans have specially trained sorcerers to deal with them. They call them exorcists.

I saw a film once, in the 1970's while in New York. I was on holiday after a particularly grueling baby job and noticed the humans were all queued up outside the cinema, only I didn't know it was a cinema. I joined the queue anyway. I figured they had to be waiting for something involving sex or food, because I couldn't for the life of me understand why anyone would just wait around in a crowd otherwise. By and by I learned they were waiting for a horror film about an exorcist. It wasn't a bad show, if a little dramatic, and a bunch of people either sicked up or swooned before it was through. I thought it was all rather hilarious.

Each world has its own system of checks and balances in place to protect it against the shadows. Sometimes, that system fails and something slips through. That's when magicians – god and human alike – have to step up and fix the problem. It's a horrid affair. Humans die or get taken. As for us gods ...

... I ... don't even want to think about it.

* * *

I materialise out of the castle, reappearing several miles away and continuing the journey on foot. If I must speak frankly, I should tell you that I'm praying I made a mistake. I'm not in the habit of being imperfect, but I'd rather be wrong than right, in this case.

Alas, I'm in for disappointment.

When I reach the rocky outcropping at the edge of the void, I can see the flashing, popping lights. In the centre of that hollow blackness, however, I still see the thing that had so alarmed me: a crack, reaching out and down into the surrounding dirt. I avoid looking at it directly, hunkering down behind a boulder. If you ever see such a rift, the general rule of thumb is:  _Don't look at it. Don't acknowledge it. Don't speak of it. Get a trained professional to handle it._  The last thing you want to do is draw its attention, or the attention of whatever is on the other side. Nothing's changed since this afternoon, so my earlier visit with Didymus didn't set off any alarms. Excellent.

I stash the satchel of food behind the rock; no use of it where I'm going, not until later. Then I do an inventory check: sword, axe, knives, bells. All here.

 _Now for the greatest disappearing act of our age._ I allow my particles to drift – not too much, just enough to where I'm no longer solid and noticeable with the eyes. Pixies do this all the time, slipping back and forth between physical and etheric states. Now I am naught but a silent shadow.

To kill a rift, you have to go to its source, which means I have to slip unnoticed through the crack. This is insanely dangerous and stupid. Don't ever, ever do what I'm doing. I've done it before, once, about eight-thousand years ago in what today is called Wales, and fortunately I didn't have to fight anything. It's best when you can slip into a rift, destroy its heart, and slip back out again without resistance. Once the heart is destroyed, the rift collapses in on itself. The true danger of a rift is that it is, in truth, a portal between worlds – yours, and what human mythologies have labeled Hell – so you never know what you're going to find inside. It's like entering a cave and praying you don't meet a bear.

Human mages tried to destroy a rift, once, in a place that stories call Atlantis. They failed, and that civilisation was destroyed. I refuse to allow my kingdom to succumb to that fate.

Drifting and cloaked, I slip through the crack like a forgotten memory.

* * *

To begin: darkness, as if someone pulled a bag over my head. In that hollow black space, a light flares, drawing me forward like a love-stricken moth. I remember this, from eight millennium ago. All I have to do is douse the flame, kill the heart of this foul place. I concentrate, pulling my molecules back together, but only slightly – just physical enough to strike with a sword if needed, just enough to put out the light. Once the heart is dead, this between dimension is going to become very unstable, very quickly. I have to be ready to run.

"Hello? Is somebody there?"

I'm a deer before a predator, frozen.

" _ **Hellooooo?!**_  I can hear somebody out there! Please, answer me!"

It's a trap. It must be a trap. But it can't be, can it? I made sure to cloak my presence, I'm still adrift on a current of air. Then the woman – because it's surely a woman, I can hear it in the voice – sobs, "Hoggle? Ludo? Are you out there?" My heart fills my mouth. No. No, no, no. Not Sarah. The Sarah I remember was just a child. No, Sarah would not be here. It's an impostor, something wearing her likeness.

 _Perhaps she died,_  hisses a nasty little voice. It's inside my head, but I can't be sure it originates there.  _You wouldn't know, would you? So busy you've been, rebuilding your precious Labyrinth. She could have died and you'd never know. They're so weak, humans, like wet tissue. You have no idea where she is or what trouble she's gotten up to in the last decade on Earth._

I'm silent. Even my thoughts are silent. It's got to be a trick. I refuse to answer, instead quietly begin to weave a water spell to douse the flame.

"... Jareth? Jareth, please." She's clearly on the verge of suffering a breakdown. Something in the darkness moves, I can feel it, and Sarah screams as if a blade has just unzipped her from stomach to sternum.

Her scream jolts me in my place, solidifying me back into a physical body and completely destroying the water spell I've been weaving. All higher thought ceases. I bolt into the shadows, away from the light. My feet slip over a rocky path leading me down, down, down. "Sarah?" She doesn't answer, just screams again, but it's reduced to a strangled moan. Mice make that sound, just before I eat them.

I'm running.  _Scream again, Sarah. Tell me you're alive._

Something hits me with the force of a train and catapults me into a hard surface. Unstoppable force meets immovable object. All air sucked from my lungs. I can't even grunt in shock. It hauls me up by my throat and slams me into the ground –  _oh look, there goes my dignity_  – once, twice, thrice, then pins me to a wall.

A little air in my lungs now, enough to make a noise. I exhale in a burst, sending with it a spray of blood and teeth.  _Sarah, make some noise. Make some noise, kitten. Tell me where you are. I'm coming._

"I think not."

I've seen mercury move across a smooth surface. The darkness moves like that now, retreating from around me to hide somewhere in the corners. I'm in a cavern, and I am, indeed, pinned to the wall by an invisible force. My eyes travel down to the middle of the room. A figure sits hunched on the floor, an old woman with soft down hair and a wrinkled face and shaking little hands. Those hands rapidly juggle a shuttle across a loom that holds either a tapestry or a death shroud. From the loom run hundreds of threads, snaking out in all directions, including up the staircase I have traveled in the dark. I'm put to mind of a spider quietly waiting at the centre of her web.

I don't see Sarah anywhere. When I try moving my head, whatever holds me presses on my throat until I gag.

The old woman slowly stands, stretches out the kink in her back, and adjusts her glasses at me. "Oh ho, we've caught ourselves a fly. A little scrawny, though."

I spit a wad at her.

"... if quite fiery," she finishes. "Don't misunderstand, I like to see passion in my victims. There'd be no sport, otherwise." She squints. "Jareth, is it? The Goblin King, Lord of the Southern Marshes, Lesser Emperor of the Lower Lands, Guardian to the Nightmare Realms, so on and so forth? You'll forgive me if I don't wear out all your titles. At my age, you learn to conserve your strength."

Mine is a bloody smile promising retribution. "Forgive me, madam, you seem to know me but I haven't had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

"You're a polite boy, even skipped using the royal 'we'. Getting right down to brass tacks. I like that." She plucks a chord on her loom, and more strings shoot out into the darkness like a fisherman casting lures. "It's been a while since I caught anything. I must say, I didn't expect to land an immortal king. Usually the only ones stupid enough to wander into my traps are humans and goblins. But it wasn't stupidity, was it? You came calling to stick a knife in me, I know. Well, I must laud your bravery. You got cajones, kid. No one will ever debate you on that."

The invisible thumb at my throat squeezes again, and I see stars.  _I move the stars for no one …_

"That heart of yours will be the end of you, my boy." She stands before me now, smoking a pipe. She's even smaller than I thought, wouldn't come up past my chest if we were standing evenly. Her gaze is speculative, like a prospector inspecting the teeth of a horse. "That's why you built that Labyrinth of yours, isn't it? Tried to keep everyone away from that fearsome heart, am I right? It worked fine, too, until the day someone battered the doors down. Not even a grown warrior but a child. Kind of pathetic, really."

_No, stop, please._

She smiles. Demons are, after all, mind readers. It's a terrible smile, even more terrible than mine, and people have said I have the grin of a bull shark scenting blood. "Hurts, doesn't it? I'm sorry." She doesn't sound sorry at all. "Like I said, been a while since I caught a god. Your kind are real impossible to kill, you know that? Believe me, we've tried. Fortunately, your power is an incredible asset, strong enough to destroy worlds once you're turned. I've never had a goblin king for a pet, but I think I'll like that very much."

_No. Oh, no. Sarah -_

"-yes, Sarah. You really don't know what she's been up to these past ten years, do you? You've been too busy rebuilding the world she's destroyed. Too bad you weren't quick enough to notice the crack she left between the dimensions before it was too late." The demon puffs thoughtfully on her pipe. "Would you like to know what your precious Sarah has been up to? Whether she's happy? Got any addictions? How many men she's bedded that weren't you?"

I glare silently from my pinned position, nostrils flared.

"... no," she finally says. "No, you're smart. You know demons bandy about with the truth even more than your kind do. I could weave you a nice story, Goblin King, one you'd like. I'd even include tits and ass in it. Henceforth, you'll be asleep inside that shell of yours anyway, your will completely subjugated by my own as I send you out to torture and destroy others, so you might as well enjoy a skin flick inside your head. You're a big boy, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

I bare my teeth.  _Angry. So angry._

"Hmm, I realize it's a big adjustment. We'll have to work on this relationship. Frankie?" She's speaking somewhere else, somewhere far away. The far wall of the cavern expands out into infinity, into another world, someplace endless and dark. In that dead zone lies the birthplace of nightmares and the coppery stink of humanity's worst emotions: fear, jealousy, rage. It's the Nightmare Realm, the place whose door I hold shut at my outpost at the end of the universe.

Somewhere in the soupy void, thunder rumbles. Then a heavy footstep thumps the ground, and I realize that's not thunder but a growl. _  
_

The demon turns back to me with a kind, grandmotherly expression – or at least, I think it's what humans would call grandmotherly. I wouldn't know, never having had a grandmother, myself. "You'll like Frankie," she says soothingly. "Or, I mean, you will, once you're turned. She'll have to break you down a bit though, and rip your spine out through your mouth. That's what she does with the humans she catches; I'm not sure if it'll work with you, but we'll give it a shot. The first place we'll stop will be your Underground. Once we batter down the door to the Nightmare Realms, just think about how much fun we'll have in the human world. It'll be complete horror, even better than the Black Death and the Atlantic slave trade combined. People will be knifing each other left and right. Total chaos. I wish I could see it all." She cocks her head at me, appraising. "Yep, you're about the best investment I've come across in a good while."

The thing in the darkness rumbles again, closer, and then a massive head juts out through the hole where the far wall used to be. It's too hairy to be a lizard, but its teeth draw my attention more than anything. Frankie shakes her head furiously, like a dog killing a rat, and the hole widens to accommodate her – twenty tons of her, claws and all. I'm not sure my land will be able to withstand Frankie's weight. Perhaps that's the point.

I recognise Frankie from my reading, of course, but that's a relatively new name for her. The Egyptians called her the Devourer and feared meeting her after death. An even older human language (the people who spoke it long forgotten by history) called her by multiple epithets, including  _Bone-Shaker_ and  _Destroyer of Worlds_.

The pressure on my throat is unbearable. If I were mortal, I'd already have suffocated. As it is, I'm in agony. It's almost impossible to move my lips.

The demon frowns and leans closer, looking for all the worlds like a concerned school matron. "What is it, sweetums?"

"W-wi ..."

"Speak up, honeybunch, I'm hard of hearing."

I lock eyes with her. When I speak, my throat burns. "Wish. Granted."

I'm weak, but the magick still works. I push  ** _out_  **and feel it leave me. It turns into a crystal ball and shatters in the demon's face, showering her with her imagined apocalypse. She screams as if I've just thrown acid in her face, which I pretty much have. She should have been specific with her wish. Watching an entire world collapse in on itself all at once can be disorienting, even for one of the Fallen. Ah, well.

Frankie howls, loosing rock from the ceiling. As the demon thrashes, the force holding me vanishes, dropping me on my arse.

My body moves without my brain. I blow past the demon, running for her loom, running toward the opposing wall where Frankie scrambles to clear the portal. I pull the sword from my belt – the ensorcelled sword inscribed with symbols that will burn out the eyes of anyone untrained to use them.

I roar, " ** _Kusanagi no Tsurugi! Awaken!_** "

The blade flares to life, and inside my head, a voice cackles madly,  _ **YES!**_  The loom shatters under our blow; the strings quiver like an animal gutted. Frankie wails. I pull out the axe – also imbued with a spirit, not as strong as the one in the sword but certainly no slouch. With a heave and a shout, I throw it.

The axe blows a hole in Frankie's chest that spits white light and flame, and the monster collapses, all twenty tons of her. She falls partly in the cavern and partly on the other side of the portal in the Nightmare Realm, pulling down part of the ceiling with her.

The ground tilts beneath us, dropping me to my knees.  _Run, my keeper,_  the sword growls. I'm already on my feet, legging it for the stairs.

" _ **Jareth!**_ " The grandmother disguise is gone. The demon's voice is now midnight given form, the hatred in it strong enough to peel flesh from a corpse. "I will find you! No matter where you go, no matter how many worlds you travel or mortal lifetimes you live, I will find you and I will take you! Foolish little god!  _ **Nothing**_  you love is safe! I will find your Sarah and make a throne from her bones, and I'll make you watch!"

The rest of the ceiling is going to collapse any second, so we have to move fast. Before we leave, we take her head.

* * *

I can feel the subterranean room implode beneath my feet as I bolt up the stairs, as I slide the sword into its sheath. Suddenly, as if a giant's spine has snapped, the staircase buckles. The ground drops from under me with a roar, and I leap – I don't know where, only forward, forward, into forever. When my fingers touch something solid, I'm surprised and relieved … then the rest of my body drops and slams into it, knocking the wind out of me, and I'm not so grateful.

I'm hanging over the edge of a cliff, the staircase completely collapsed.

The world around me shakes as if springing to life after a long sleep. Beneath me, in the black pit where I've left two dead monsters, I hear moaning. Ah, curse. Frankie's blocking the portal to the Nightmare Realms, wedging it open like a door.  _Oh, this is bad._

I heave myself over the lip of the destroyed staircase, depositing myself into the little antechamber lit by the flame. It still burns merrily. I clap my hands and hiss. When the materialised liquid douses the flame, the world around me constricts as if gasping for oxygen.

With the flame gone and me plunged into total darkness, I can see … ah, there: twinkling stars, and a sandstone landscape. The other side of the rift in time and space. Home. I stumble toward it.

Sulfur and brimstone burn my nostrils. Behind me, something scrambles up the destroyed staircase with a sound like bat wings. So close to home, yet so far. I suppose this is how it ends: not dead (for how could I die?) but surely trapped, perhaps eaten away by madness after a few thousands years. The world around me twists, and I make my decision.

I turn away from the portal leading home … and I pull the bells from my belt, remove them from the protective leather straps that bind their clappers.

There are two bells: a small one to stun, and a large one to kill. When I shake the small one, the sound peals across this dark place with a high joyful ring as if calling the faithful to mass. The winged things in the shadows shriek, dazed and confused. Several of them thump to the ground, knocked clean out of the air. Many of them thud uncomfortably close to my feet.

I close my eyes and ring the large bell. This time, the world around me trembles as if I've applied an electrical shock, as if blowing out its heart wasn't bad enough. A pinpoint in the distance, behind the inky blackness of the collapsed staircase, contracts and then expands outward, eating up everything in its path. The winged things in the dark elicit a long, drawn-out death rattle.

I drop the bells. They thud with a clang into the dirt, and the ground jumps.  _Well, this is it._

Silly me, I hadn't counted on simple physics. When that world explodes, it spits me backward and through the portal just before it roars in on itself.

* * *

Something far away is making silly noises. Eventually the stars stop dancing and I realise Didymus and his brothers stand over me. Then the sky stops spinning, and Didymus and his kin congeal into one, and there is only one Didymus after all – thank goodness. I can barely stand the original. I still can't understand what he's saying. The noises issuing from his mouth put me to mind of a horse backing up over a cat.

I try shouting, "You old nincompoop, speak some sense!" Instead it comes out: " _ **Euuuuuunnghghghgh.**_ "

Finally I realise that Didymus is asking Our Royal Self how many fingers he'd holding up, and all sorts of nonsense. I desperately want wine. Something, anything, just knock me out and relieve me of this headache. "Didymus, the sounds you're making worsen the pain in our head. Do shut up."

The simple knight straightens up gleefully and calls over his shoulder, "His Majesty is awake! Fetch a stretcher!"

 _Gods, no, fetch me wine, and loads of it._  "We are not going anywhere on a stretcher!" I snarl, heaving myself onto my elbows, which isn't such a great idea because the motion sets the world to spinning again. It takes a moment and a deep breath to centre myself. Didymus is not alone: we're surrounded by goblins. Hordes of goblins. Small goblins, big goblins, half my army, by the look of things. "Didymus! Damn and blast - what is the  _ **meaning**_  of this?"

My knight draws himself up to his full height – not an easy job, given that he's barely tall enough to bite my kneecaps off – but what he lacks in dimensions, he makes up for in spirit. "Forgive me, sire, but I knew something was wrong earlier today when we crossed this place. 'Tis not like Your Majesty to suddenly flee from an important job. So I alerted the army, and we followed you and hid in the forest awaiting your next move."

I'm not sure whether to be enraged by the flagrant disobedience or oddly touched.  _I'll have a better idea how to react once I've slept._ I try standing again but promptly pitch to the side like a ship suddenly demasted in a storm. My loyal goblins part like a curtain, and I hit the ground hard. Something reeks of rotten eggs. Gods, it's me. So that's what that persistent sound is: steam rising from my skin and clothes, as if I've been baked in an oven. I'm very warm.

Beside myself, I begin to laugh. Didymus' ears twitch in concern. "Sire, are you alright?"

I should respond,  _Yes, of course, you twit_ , but the laughter won't stop. I want to move, want to turn my head, but it's a stone tumbling down a deep well and pulling me after it.

* * *

My eyes slide open to sunshine. I'm in my bed, the crisp linens pulled up to my neck. Perhaps it was all a horrid dream. Then I try moving, and every muscle in my body seizes up. No. Definitely not a dream. I groan as if being strangled.

"How are you feeling today, Your Majesty?" Cornelius stands at attention at my bedside as if he's always stood there. I wouldn't be surprised if he's stood vigil since my officers delivered my unconscious body.

I grunt. "Like a dragon has tap-danced on my head. What?"

"I said nothing, sir."

"I could have sworn you said something."

"That might be the buzzing in your ears, sir. Quite typical of head trauma. I assure you, it's nothing permanent, especially for an illustrious being such as yourself. Your kind are made of far sturdier stuff than that."

"Lovely."

"Can I get you anything?"

"A bullet."

"Sir?"

"Tea."

"Very good, sir." He vanishes in a puff of smoke, reappearing an instant later with a hot cup of something steaming with a vaguely lemon scent. It smells heavenly. "The kitchen is delighted to fix you dinner. You've been asleep for three days."

"It's a wonder it's not three centuries." Every bone in my body creaks as I sit myself upright against the pillows. Cornelius starts in concern, but I wave him off. I'm not wearing my gloves, or the traveling clothes I donned for my expedition, just loose sleep pants. I'm sure it's Cornelius' work: neither Didymus nor my soldiers would have the brains for such a detail. I'm far too sticky to have been given a bath, but I can tell that someone has sponged the worst of the filth from my body. Cornelius again, bless his heart.

My butler clears his throat. I raise an eyebrow, not sure I can stand any further surprises. Not now.

"You have some … messages for you, sir," Cornelius stammers. Actually stammers. Both my eyebrows travel to meet my hairline. "Words of greeting from neighbouring kingdoms."

"Greetings?" I ask, bewildered.

"Yes, sir. To congratulate you on the … changes."

" ** _Changes?_** "

"Please, look outside, sir," he murmurs deferentially, still clutching my tea.

I stumble from the bed, forcing myself to ignore the coarse waves of pain. When I reach the window, my first thought is that the castle has shifted itself again. The view outside cannot possibly be  _ **my**  _land. My bedroom has a perfect view of the west, where for the past ten years a dark void has hovered like a storm cloud. Now I see only forest and mountains and a distant swath of desert: a world that is whole, pristine, untouched.

If it weren't for the wall next to my bed, I would hit the floor again. As it is, I waste precious seconds trying to regain my composure. I actually gasp.

"Rather beautiful work, sir, if I do say so," Cornelius adds.

"Yes." There is an idiotic smile on my face, but it feels detached from the rest of me, as if every part of myself has already flown to pieces. "Yes, it certainly is."

* * *

Destroying the rift has repaired the Underground beyond my wildest dreams. I estimate that it's already added several hundred square miles back to my kingdom. It's the grandest victory I've had in years. I want to sing, perhaps dance a little, but too much excitement isn't doing well for these bones. I quickly return to bed, where Cornelius brings me the promised dinner and a stack of waiting correspondence.

"I took the liberty of opening your letters, sir," my butler informs me as he pours more tea. I've already inhaled the first cup with the alacrity of a hummingbird. "There are several requests for social visits, I wager to check in on Your Majesty's health and the general state of things."

General state of things. Right. What Cornelius means is the neighbours want to see how weak I am and if now is the appropriate time to launch an invasion. "Yes, the neighbours always were nosy little tossers, weren't they?" I flip through some envelopes, suddenly tired.

I can't imagine taking guests in my present state. I'll need time to recover. Nothing food and rest won't fix – and perhaps a good romp, though with my injuries anything vaguely sexual might only injure me further. Having narrowly escaped my kingdom being ripped asunder a second time, however, and my person nearly being unwillingly conscripted to the forces of darkness, I'll take my chances. The current craving for sex actually surpasses the one I have to drink myself under the bed. Maybe I'll do the first and then the second, just to cover all my bases.

Sarah.

I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. For so long, I've waffled between wanting to throttle her and wanting to punish her for what she did to my kingdom. (In my fantasies, the manner of punishment typically involves handcuffs and a riding crop.) Demons, however, have a terrible knack for revealing the innermost secrets of one's soul – it's how they know the best way to torture their victims, and believe me, they've had millions of years to hone their skills. You can never trust anything a demon says, yet you can certainly discover a lot about yourself by the things they use against you. Shadows can be most helpful that way.

I descended into Hell, and in that wretched place I could have found anything.  _ **Anything.**_  What I found was Sarah. The demon knew exactly what my weakness was. It distracted me enough from my mission and nearly cost me both kingdom and freedom.

The truth stings: I think … I'm in love with the same woman who rejected and destroyed me.  _Damn it._ _ **Damn it.**_ _What kind of sick masochistic bastard am I?_ I sink further into the pillows, dig my hands further into my eyes. If I could, I would pop them straight out of my skull. It might relieve the tension.

_That's why you built that Labyrinth of yours, isn't it? Tried to keep everyone away from that fearsome heart, am I right? It worked fine, too, until the day someone battered the doors down. Not even a grown warrior but a child. Kind of pathetic, really._

Damn demons. Damn Sarah, with her damned fairy tale about a goblin king who fell in love with a girl and gifted her with his powers. I've tried to ignore it, tried to waylay her with intimidation, physical threats, and finally seduction, and nothing worked. She bypassed it all like I was nothing. Damn her. Yet even as I think all this, a whisper in my head croons,  _Precious thing._

Lust I can play like a musician with an instrument. I don't know how to handle love. It's why I built the Labyrinth in the first place. Don't mistake this sudden epiphany for softness, mind you. I still plan on tying Sarah to my headboard.

Just when I think things can't get worse: enter Sod's Law, stage left. I bolt upright. "Cornelius, where is that letter I slipped under my door?"

My butler looks up from fussing about my chambers. "Letter, sir? Your note said to send it after three days, and you've been unconscious all that while. I believe the staff has seen to its delivery."

I want the mattress to swallow me whole. "Oh. Great."

* * *

To be continued


	4. Road's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I need to get myself stable, I realized. I've been living on the edge for years without a plan or a safety net. That was what Karen would call my come-to-Jesus moment. The way I'd been living my life wasn't working.

_All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother._

\- Abraham Lincoln

* * *

Let me tell you some of my happiest memories. I'd hate to leave you with the false impression that I've led a terrible life.

One of my favorite memories remains the day I met my name. I was six, and Mrs. Pimm walked around the classroom showing each person how to spell their name in script. We weren't going to learn script until fourth grade, but I guess she wanted to give us a goal to strive for. I was so excited that I could barely sit in my chair. I liked Mrs. Pimm because she let me stand or dance next to my desk if I felt like it during lessons, provided I didn't disturb anyone. Nowadays, the grown-ups would have just drugged me.

When Mrs. Pimm showed me my name (written in blue ink on construction paper), I jumped up to dance. I didn't understand the flowy lines, but I knew that this was my name and I was very happy to meet it. It felt like being reintroduced to an old friend, and I decided then and there that I would do my stupid homework if it meant being able to write and read.

I've never been the type of person who does well memorizing crap out of a textbook. I only made it alive through school because I drew during class. Seriously, if you look at my old notebooks, they're 80% drawings and 20% actual academic content. I don't know how I passed anything, let alone graduated with honors. I think being able to express myself creatively allowed some room for science and math and geography to filter in through the cracks.

No, to learn something, I need to taste it, touch it, play with it. I need an experience.

So I learned English not by memorizing grammar but by reading novels. I swallowed whole volumes of C.S. Lewis, Stephen King, Rudyard Kipling, Octavia Butler, Orhan Pamuk, Anton Chekhov – and that was in elementary school. I was the only student in Mr. Turner's fifth grade classroom to do a book report on  _The Satanic Verses_. I tried Dickens, but  _Oliver Twist_  made me want to set things on fire. We read Dickens' work as books today, but he originally wrote magazine serials, and he got paid by the word. That's why a dinner in a Dickens' novel takes fifty pages and uses vocabulary that's the stuff of a Scrabble player's wet dream.

I discovered  _The Hobbit_  by accident; it was misplaced on a bookstore shelf next to some Sandman comics. Dad gave me a funny look when I brought it to him. Not many eight-year old kids read Tolkien, I guess. But my father is a cool guy, and he bought it for me anyway. I read it in one week, even skipped ballet class. How could I concentrate on pliés when Bilbo Baggins was facing down the great and terrible Smaug, the scourge of an entire countryside?

Language began overflowing into all areas of my life. I learned to recognize how a particular word could change the emotion behind an entire sentence. Until Mom left us, I even enjoyed acting. I liked the bawdy puns that Shakespeare sprinkled through his works, a trait shared by Led Zeppelin. It turns out the might Zep loved Tolkien just as much as I did. The first song of theirs I ever heard was  _Ramble On_.

I'll never forget it. Toby crawled around my feet while I halfheartedly memorized vocab for the SAT, and the song started with a light, steady thumping. It sounded, I thought, like someone quickly hitting something with a riding crop. (I don't know where that image came from.)

But what grabbed me were the lyrics:

_Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear._

_How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air._

_T'was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair._

_But Gollum and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her, her, her … yeah._

I actually turned and stared at my stereo as if it would bite. Toby stopped chewing on Lancelot long enough to ask in his sweet baby voice if I was okay.

I was and I wasn't. It was surreal to hear such amazing music about magic and a favorite fantasy story. It felt like a kiss. Yet when Robert Plant sang of the darkest depths of Mordor and a girl so fair and the evil one slipping away with her, I actually saw myself in a dank castle with a roguish king who begged to be my slave. That damn memory again.

Oh, sorry, I mean "memory". Quotation marks included.

It's an eerie song, but lighthearted, and that day Led Zeppelin became my favorite band. Over the next few weeks, I slowly made my way through all of their albums. I listened to them so much that the librarian confiscated my iPod.

* * *

Drawing must have made me smarter than I give myself credit for, because by the time I was seventeen, I had the option to graduate early. I took it and lit on out of high school so fast I'm surprised the suction didn't carry my classmates along with me.

It was the smartest decision I ever made. The mentality of humans shifts once they leave high school. Suddenly, the bullying behavior that seemed okay for twelve years is no longer tolerated. I got a scholarship that covered college tuition, and I doubled up on courses so I could get through in just under three years. By the age of twenty, I had my coveted degree and no direction in life. Congrats, Williams.

So I got a job. I'm told it's what grown-ups are supposed to do.

I lasted three months. I got so depressed sitting at a desk. At least in school I could get away with drawing during lectures, or covertly listening to music during study halls, and the band teacher had let me use her classroom to play guitar. But the adult world doesn't welcome creativity so much. It prefers tangible things like Excel spreadsheets.

At the end of those three months, I fled again – this time to a French city called Tours, where I taught English and discovered that French teenagers hate high school just as much as American ones do. This says something about what we call education. For some reason, we associate torture with edification, as if suffering builds character.

When my contract ended, I didn't go home to New York, just got on another plane. I spent the next few years traveling the world, hopping from job to job. Morocco, Kenya, Egypt, Thailand, Mongolia, France again. I was a knight on a quest, though I was never sure what exactly my quest was.

* * *

I met Hassan in a Paris tea salon. I'd walked in looking for a bite to eat, and he fed me a flaky pastry that, dripping with pistachios and honey, glued my jaws shut. Hassan was a middle-aged guy with two daughters who were my age, and I think he could tell I was lonely. He spoke good English, and by this time my French no longer sucked, so I came back the next evening. I have a knack for making friends no matter where I am.

In this way, Hassan sort of adopted me. Paris is a beautiful city, but it's discombobulating to newcomers. Whenever I visited, Hassan would take breaks from serving tea to his customers and we'd talk. History, politics, poetry, it didn't matter.

He tried teaching me Arabic for a while – total waste of time. I've already said that I don't do well in a classroom setting. The only reason I could communicate in French was by just speaking it to people and learning as I went. Memorizing Arabic grammar out of a primer was as disastrous as learning English in elementary school. We gave up after a few lessons.

The thing you had to understand about Hassan was that he was exceedingly generous. It's a byproduct, I think, of being Lebanese. You can't ever compliment a Lebanese person on his watch, because he'll try to give it to you. Hassan fled Beirut twenty years previously during the civil war. I don't know the details. I never had the nerve to ask.

He set up shop in Paris and raised a family there, and in his spare time, he helped other lost and frightened immigrants. He hooked people up with roommates, French lessons, visa paperwork. I think that's why Hassan recognized the loneliness in my face when he first met me. He'd once been in my shoes. And teaching his language to me, he felt, was his duty as a Lebanese.

When he'd heard my initial plan to check out Arabic lessons at the Arab World Institute, he insisted, "You cannot do that. They will take too much money and teach you Egyptian Arabic." He said this in a way that indicated he regarded Egyptian Arabic the same way many Americans thought of English spoken in Staten Island. "That is why I will teach you Arabic instead."

The only thing I did enjoy about Arabic was learning the alphabet. I can see why calligraphy is such a big thing in the Arab world. All those long, flowing strokes! I spent hours practicing my letters. I'd slip into a meditative state similar to the one I'm in when I draw.

Oh, yes, drawing … I was making good money by this time drawing portraits. It supplemented my income as a virtual assistant and web designer. I still have sketchbooks filled with drawings of Notre-Dame and old men playing pétanque in the park near my apartment.

I spent fourteen months in Paris, my longest stay abroad in any one place. It was even starting to feel like home. Then one day, I got a call from an unlisted number, which never happened. Out of mere curiosity, I answered. I was drawing at a small outdoor cafe, and the air rolling off the Seine that November morning was chill. The memory is so vivid, it's baked into my brain.

"Allo?" I asked.

"Sarah, darling?"

The world caved in on itself. "... Mom?"

"Oh, Sarah, you sounded perfectly French there. I didn't recognize you."

My tongue struggled to move. For a moment, I forgot how to work my mouth. "How did you get my number?"

She ignored my question. "Are you still in Paris?"

I should have denied it just to be spiteful, but instead I stuttered, "How do you know I'm in  _ **Paris** **?**_ "

"I'm very resourceful, Sarah, you know that. I heard you graduated this spring. Congratulations."

"Mom, I … I graduated two years ago."

"Please, Sarah, call me Linda." That's right, now I remembered. Mom always wanted to be one of those hip mothers. She never really liked being called  _Mom_ , the way normal mothers did. "Listen, I'm going to be in London next week on business. I was wondering, would you like to have lunch? I have some friends I'd love to introduce you to, and it's been so long since we've seen each other."

The anxiety was now an angry fist inside of me. I could barely breathe. "Mom, it's been … why are you contacting me now? What do you want?"

She had the audacity to make a small, hurt noise. "Don't I get to spend time with my own daughter? I made some mistakes, Sarah. Please don't demonize me for them."

"Are you kidding me? I haven't seen you in ten years and now you call me out of the blue to take me to lunch in England? Are you  _ **serious?**_ "

"Sarah-"

"Does Dad know you're doing this?"

"You know your father and I don't talk-"

"Well, maybe you should!" I snapped. Talk in the cafe visibly hushed, and a waiter shot me a dirty look. I ignored them. "You … you have no idea what it was like after you left. We loved you and you left us for some asshole with a pretty smile. Was he worth it?"

Mom hissed through her teeth. I thought I heard something else, and I noticed something I'd missed in my original shock: she was slurring. "I'm trying to live in the present, Sarah, not in the past. Please don't-"

"Are you drunk?"

"Of course not-"

"You're drunk." All the fight went out of me then. "Mom, you need to own up to the fact that you're an alcoholic. This is going to kill you."

"I am  _ **not**_  an – you know, I can see this was a mistake." She didn't even sound upset, just out of it. I wouldn't be surprised if she was on something besides booze. "I should go." And before I realized it, I was holding a dead line.

I headed to Hassan's salon on auto-pilot. By the time I stumbled in the door, I'm sure I looked like an accident victim, I was so numb and angry. Hassan saw the danger signal and promptly stuffed me into a squishy armchair alongside a bookshelf filled with poetry by Francis Marrash and Hafiz Ibrahim, then served me tea in little cups laced with sugar cubes. Before I realized it, he'd begun a one-sided conversation to redirect my attention. Hassan always was a master at shifting the energy in a room.

In this way, I felt the anger begin to subside and feeling return to my legs, and the strange moment passed.

"My mother called me this afternoon," I finally admitted.

"Ah." Hassan didn't know that my mother was the famous Linda Young, but he knew the basics: that my mom had an affair and left when I was a kid. I still don't tell people the details. I always appreciated that Hassan respected my privacy. He didn't like to stick his nose where it didn't belong. He chewed thoughtfully on his pipe stem at my news. "I suppose it did not go well."

"No, it didn't."

"Ah," he said again.

I blurted, "Why is the world terrible?"

Hassan looked tired. "It depends on whom you ask. There are some people who will tell you that evil is the work of djinn. I never did understand how your movies make them into happy little helper spirits that will give you three wishes."

"Do you believe in djinn?"

"Pff. Only backwater people believe that. But I do believe that every man and woman must face their own internal demons and decide whether they wish to listen to their heart or to the nasty little ego that incites them to jealousy and war." He looked thoughtful. "... so I guess you could say that I do believe in djinn, if that is what you mean."

"Aren't djinn mentioned in the Qu'ran?"

"It is written that, save the Prophet, there is not one among us who is not appointed a djinni. Perhaps that is a reference to our dark sides."

"We all have our personal Darth Vaders."

"Mm-hmm."

"So you do believe in djinn."

"Perhaps," he said in a polite way that really meant:  _No, I do not_. "But I do believe in angels."

"How can you believe in one but not the other?"

"I am an eternal optimist." And he chuckled at me, as if he told the funniest joke.

* * *

Three days later, I was on a plane for Istanbul. My speedy exit royally pissed off my landlord, who made some flip comment that I must have been fleeing hellhounds. Maybe I was.

* * *

By the time I got to Tokyo, I was twenty-three and eight grand in debt. Yeah, you read that right: $8,000, all on credit cards. It just sort of sneaked up on me. (Weak, right? I know. I take full responsibility here for screwing myself.)

I can only compare credit card debt to gaining weight after college. One minute, you're ripped like Popeye and the star of the football team, the next you're fat as a house and haven't moved from your cubicle in ten years. One minute, you're only paying the minimums on your credit card balance, the next you're about to lose your shirt. Take a lesson from me: don't do what I did. I was an idiot.

I had enough money to travel from Narita Airport to Shinjuku Station, which I later learned is the busiest transport station in the world. It boasts 35 platforms and 3.5 million travelers in any 24-hour period. That's why it was easy for me to curl up in a corner and nod off while literally millions of people raced past me in tightly formed lines, like schools of salmon swimming upstream.

The heavy crowds were still there when I awoke hours later. At least, I thought it was hours later. The crazy thing about Shinjuku Station is that much of it is underground. It has the same effect as playing craps in Vegas: no windows, no clocks, so your sense of time warps. I had to walk up a few flights of stairs and make some random turns before I could find an exit. The light outside (faint and pinkish) told me that it was shortly after dawn. I sat down right there on the sidewalk to think.

I had a few incoming projects that would pay, so that was good, but it wasn't enough to really be flush. I'd bitten myself in the ass with the debt thing. I didn't have any student loans, but the credit card stuff … I'd seen it bury other people. You'd think I would have learned from them, but I guess I hadn't. I probably should have considered this before traveling to one of the world's most expensive cities.

 _I need to get myself stable,_  I realized.  _I've been living on the edge for years without a plan or a safety net._ That was what Karen would call my come-to-Jesus moment. The way I'd been living my life wasn't working.

I had friends in Tokyo, and I texted one to ask where I could find the Japanese equivalent of Staples. Reimi texted back something along the lines of,  _Are you for real? Get your ass over to my place!_  I arrived in time for a late breakfast and an offer to sleep on her couch.

Reimi told me that the Japanese equivalent of Staples was Askul, where everybody bought office supplies. I found one a few subway stops from her apartment and bought a notepad, then went to a park. The way I brainstorm always starts with drawing, so I drew the kids playing in the park and a gardener tending the bushes. Then I drew pixies, and a dwarf, and a bipedal fox with a hat and a vest and a sword, and a hairy monster that might have been a carnivorous yak.

Before I knew it, I was drawing the Goblin King in his rotting black armor, his hair wilder and shaggier than I remembered. He looked like a knight who had fallen asleep in a fairy ring for a thousand years and woken up to discover the rest of the world had continued turning without him. He lay curled up in a window seat overlooking a rose garden, but he gazed directly at me, the artist who'd created him. The expression in his mismatched eyes was pensive, and I wondered what he was thinking.

 _Time to work, Williams_ , I scolded myself.

Alongside the drawings, I began to calculate figures. How much I owed, how much I made, how much time I had left before I had to renew my passport. I wrote a list of my skills and strengths that looked like this:

_1\. I can code like a boss_

_2\. I know how to see much and say little_

_3\. I easily build rapport with others_

It became a long list. Next to it, I wrote a second list of possible jobs I could do based on these qualities. Web design. Tutoring English. Business consulting. Developing apps. Dog walking. Pet sitting. That list got long, too. I wrote down everything, regardless of how stupid it sounded. By the time I was done with the exercise, I had eighty ideas. Now I had to pick a few of the best ones and do some research to find which was most feasible and in demand by the market.

It was, I thought, time to create that stable system I've needed for so long – perhaps hadn't had ever since Mom left. By the time I returned to Reimi's, it was late afternoon and my notepad was filled with drawings, notes and a game plan.

* * *

I spent three weeks on Reimi's couch before I insisted on moving into a hotel. I hated impeding on her hospitality. Reimi thought I was nuts. "Are you going to stay in a hotel for the next year or whatever?" she demanded. "You can't rent an apartment without working papers, and you can't get  ** _those_  **unless you have an office job."

"I'll manage," I replied. But the truth was, I didn't know what I was doing. I just knew this: in every other place I'd ever been, I'd always been able to secure lodging for myself, no matter how bad the housing market was. I spent two nights in a hotel in Shibuya, and within that time I found a nearby apartment for rent. There were six other people looking at the place when I arrived - half of them Japanese, the other half gaijin like me, and I figured the landlord would prefer Japanese to foreigners.

The landlord was an old lady who took one look at me, asked me precisely three questions, then decided on the spot that I could rent the apartment. You can't imagine how pissed off everybody else was. I think this is my personal record for finding a place. I'm not sure how I did it. I used up the last of my money on the rent and deposit. Rent in Tokyo is freakin' expensive. I now had a month to make more money for rent and living expenses. No pressure, Williams.

The funny thing is, I didn't get to enjoy Tokyo at all. I was hustling my tail off. When I wasn't working on paying projects, I was working on the  _Sarah gets her life in order_  plan. I barely slept.

The first thing I did was move all my assets into an international bank where everything could be done online. Then I opened checking, savings and retirement accounts. Then I automated everything, including my bills. Money would go where it needed to on a set schedule without me having to do a thing.

I wrote a schedule for paying off my debt. If I continued paying minimums, it would take me ten years to pay it off. I winced when I read that. But if I paid every  _ **week**_  instead of every  _ **month**_ , I'd be debt free within the next year. I liked that very much, but I had to eat. I couldn't focus so much on my debt that I forgot about living expenses.  _Simple answer: I need to make more money_.

 _You could make a wish._  It was an innocent suggestion on the cusp of my subconscious.

I froze.  _Where did_ _ **that**_ _thought come from?_

* * *

I don't believe in wishes. You only get what you work for, after all. So the simple conclusion to this story is that I busted my ass and recreated my income stream. I read a lot of books and taught myself how to get better clients. Within two months of my arrival in Japan, I'd quadrupled my income for web design, and I'd sold a painting to someone for the equivalent of $1,300 US.

I was pretty proud of myself. There's nothing quite as empowering as making money – not through a paycheck, but your own fingers.

A friend of a friend introduced me to a guy named Takeuchi, an older man who made his fortune designing plane engines. I guess Takeuchi took a liking to me, because he did pursue me for a while, but I wasn't interested. Things got a little crazy when he actually offered me money, and then I realized he was shopping for a mistress.

I'm not gonna lie, the idea was tempting for all of 0.2 seconds, but I said no. I didn't want to be owned by anybody. I had a plan for my life now, and I wasn't a princess in need of rescuing. I'd rescue myself just fine, thanks.

I'd calculated that I'd need a year to pay off my debt, if I could manage to keep to the repayment schedule. I ended up paying it all off within six months … and that was while stuffing my savings accounts and Roth IRA. I was debt-free and, for the first time in my life, I had steady income and a safety cushion.

Later that year, I was on a plane again.

* * *

I can't pinpoint any one instance that finally made me go back to New York. The morning after my 25th birthday (feted in a Moscow nightclub with some new friends), I realized I'd graduated college five years ago and hadn't been home since. Toby wasn't writing as much, but that's to be expected at his age. To be honest, I was glad he was out socializing and living his life.

Still, I missed him, and Karen and Dad. Merlin had passed away in my absence. I wondered if my parents had left my childhood bedroom untouched or if they'd rented it out. So much had changed. I was a little frightened of what I'd find if I returned home.

I suppose the event that swayed me was seeing that guy get hit. I was shopping in Izmaylovo Market when a bang reverberated like a gunshot. I thought a car was backfiring, but it was actually running over a man. I looked in time to see him get sucked under the front tires as other pedestrians scrambled for cover. Somebody screamed. A child started crying.

Suddenly, I was just kneeling there and holding his hand. He was an older guy, maybe Dad's age, with thinning hair and a nose that was too big for his face, which was a pulpy mess. I knew right away that he wasn't going to make it, as if I could smell death on him, so I held his hand as a siren wailed too far away to do him any good. For some reason, the man kept calling me Anna, and then he told me that he couldn't see anything. I guess his optical nerve was shutting down, or however it works when people die. He looked scared.

"It's okay, I'm here," I told him in English.

"I'm sorry, Anna." He was apologizing to this Anna person a lot, and I wondered who she was, or if she'd know that this guy was never coming home. "Could you stay with me while I go?"

It was such a strange request. I wasn't an atheist, exactly, but I'd never really put much thought into what happens when people pass away. Now wasn't the time to be cynical, though. I squeezed his hand in reassurance and asked, "Is it still dark where you are?"

"Yes."

"Look for a light."

He was quiet for a long time, and I thought he might have died without me noticing. But then he said, "I see it."

"Okay. Walk toward it."

"Come with me, please."

You can't deny a dying person anything, right? So I said, "Okay, I'm walking there with you" and squeezed his hand again. He smiled, then, and it was such a peaceful smile that I smiled back at him for a few moments before I realized he was no longer breathing. I released his hand and closed his eyes. By then, the paramedics were rushing up and I got out of the way. I didn't stick around for questioning, just went in search of a bathroom to wash the blood off my hands. It wasn't until later that everything finally sank in, and I started shaking.

I called home that day. It was breakfast time in New York. Karen answered.

"Williams' residence, hello?"

"Karen? It's me."

"Sarah! So good to hear your voice. How are you?"

"Can I come home?"

Thank God, she didn't ask any questions or judge me. All she said was, "Of course, sweetheart." I was at the airport the next day.

* * *

I'd love to show you my apartment. It's this way. Don't mind the dog; she doesn't bite.

My place is small, but that suits me fine. I've lived in much worse. When you enter the front door, the first thing you'll notice is that the walls are painted buttery yellow and clusters of crystal hang from the ceiling. The crystal refracts all the light coming in the balcony windows and makes the place glow no matter what time of day.

Against one wall, three long bookshelves house my library. On the opposite wall sits a fat purple sofa and my keyboard, complete with foot pedals. I took up the piano after I returned from Russia. I had to trade in my old guitar because it got damaged going through customs in Prague, and there's a new 12-string tucked away behond the Yamaha. I inherited the coffee table from the previous tenant. Right now it's covered with magazines.

Obviously, you've noticed the plants overflowing the room. I like plants, like feeling as if I'm outdoors even when I'm not. Paintings march slipshod across the walls - some of them mine, much of them not. I'm a big fan of Da Vinci and Klimt.

The tiny kitchen fits two people comfortably; any more than that feels like a sardine can. There's no dishwasher, which is a bummer, but it's an easy trade-off for the balcony. (Sorry, mind the dog again. She likes to hide under the table and trip people.) Anyway, the bathroom's through that door, if you need it. It has a deep bathtub and a nice view of the park.

Back to the living room. The door in the corner leads to my bedroom, where the walls are burnt orange. You can barely see them, though, because of all the art and magazine clippings. I've also taped up souvenirs from my travels: a feathered mask I made, concert ticket stubs, photographs. The mirror over my dresser is shaped like a sun, and jewelry hangs from some cork board. I've hung a diaphanous curtain around my bed for added privacy, even though I live alone.

All told, it's a cozy little den, this home of mine. I plan on hanging onto it for a while - a first in my adult life. I moved in a month after returning from Russia and spending a few weeks in my old bedroom.

Coming home was a shock; I felt like I didn't even fit in my old bed, and buying groceries using English was just bizarre. I initially felt like an outsider in my own country. Dad and Karen had more wrinkles around their eyes. I didn't recognize Toby, which hurt. Then again, my family barely recognized me. I didn't understand what they were talking about until I saw old photos of me in high school and college. I'm taller and thinner now, and I stand firmly erect, like a woman who's finally grown into her skin and in full control of her limbs.

I resisted grad school at first, given how poorly I did in school as a kid, but I have a career goal. Plus, college was way different from high school. Overall, I'd say it allows more wiggle room. I'd rather bury myself in a library and do research than sit in a classroom for eight hours a day. Grad school isn't so bad.

My apartment's four blocks from campus, and I'm late for a meeting with my adviser. I'm having a hard time moving my ass this morning. Disturbing dreams last night, though I can't remember them. I just know they were weird, and I awoke with my head at the foot of my bed and my feet on my pillow. I'd obviously been thrashing in my sleep.

Frankly, I can't remember the last time I slept well. An hour or two a night has been the norm since I was a teen.  _Sarah, that's impossible, you'd be a basket case by now_  - yeah, I know. I don't get it either. Nobody does. The doctors blamed growth spurts until I was well into adulthood, until they could no longer blame hormonal changes. I take my insomnia in stride. When you can't sleep, you suddenly have an extra eight hours in your day. It's like gaining another life.

So while other humans sleep, I paint, or compose music, or read, or write stories, or roam the outdoors. Our world transforms at night. I like to find empty intersections and bask in their silence, as if I am the last woman on Earth. Nighttime silence is maddening. Terror, in some ways, resembles the cresting sensation that precedes orgasm, when you're not quite there yet and you fear that when you finally are, you may die. It's a bittersweet agony, this anticipatory fear, but it makes me curl my toes in a good way.

In these silent moments, staring down empty city streets where no other living thing roams, I feel like I have a taste of infinity.

My exes never could understand the insomnia, and my nocturnal wanderings always scared them. I learned early to curb my exploring whenever I entered a relationship, to pretend to sleep long enough so I could slip out of their arms and go create something new with my hands, or wander the world outside. In a way, being alone is a relief. There's never a need to hide.

* * *

Judy's an awesome adviser, as advisers go. Unlike my high school guidance counselor, Judy knows my full name, my fears, my ambitions in life ... basically, she sees me as a person, not a sheet of paper. We've gotten on like peas and carrots in the last year. Today she has a cluster of pencils sticking out of the bun in her hair and a pinched look that tells me she's run out of cigarettes. When I enter her cluttered office, she waves me into a chair while frowning at the unfortunate person on the other end of her phone.

"... I don't care what his excuse is, he didn't get permission from the board!" she barks. "Explain to me how a 4th year grad student doesn't understand the importance of approval before conducting experiments of questionable ethical merit ... That was a rhetorical demand, Eric, and you know it. Tell ... I don't care! Tell the little trigger-happy bastard to cease and desist all activity immediately until after the board meets next week, and that he should be grateful we don't expel him! The last thing we need is someone suing the university because of one student's remarkably poor judgment ... Thank you, I will ... You, too. Bye."

When Judy finally looks in my direction, I make sure to wear an exceedingly sunny smile.

"Hello, Sarah," she says wearily, rubbing her temples. "Sorry about that. You wouldn't believe ... well, anyway, here we are." She rummages around her desk for a file. "How's your semester going?"

"Good," I say, and I mean it. "I'm loving Doctor Leffert's practicum on psychopathology." And I mean that, too.

Judy smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, I'm hearing wonderful feedback from Barbara about your work in her course, and your teaching the undergrads. I did, however, want to discuss your results from the final examination."

Something bad just happened, I can tell. The final exam is the last hurdle before I can officially receive my Master's degree, before I can begin my PhD. I try to sound calm when I say, "Oh?", but I can feel the choke in the back of my throat.

"Yes, there's some ... concern about your command of the material. You didn't go nearly in depth as the other students, which makes me wonder how comfortable you feel with this program."

"I-" Jesus, how do I even respond to that? "I thought my answers were adequate."

"Some of them were adequate. Others included big holes. I must confess, I was a little disappointed with your answer regarding general issues with methodology. A 1st year student should have been able to tackle that one." She cocks her head. "Sarah, how have you been sleeping?"

I manage to restrain a laugh. "Is it obvious?"

Judy looks sad. "It feels sometimes like you're not fully present, as if you're simultaneously existing in another world, and your exam results certainly don't line up with what I know of you. You have one of the most brilliant, active minds I've ever met. You can do better than this. So it's made the committee wonder: was our judgment in letting you into this program a fluke?"

I suck in a breath.

"... or do you need to take care of your health?" she finishes.

"I've been an insomniac for years," I answer warily. "I ... I hope my admission into this program wasn't a fluke. I really want to be here."

"Hmm." Judy reclines in her chair and closes her eyes, thinking. I'm on pins and needles until she looks at me again. "Yes, I believe that you want to be here. Your love of learning is obvious. But you definitely need to look into your health. This is the beginning of your career, and it's only going to get more challenging from here. How can you keep up with its demands if you're already burning out?" Before I can gather my thoughts enough to answer, she hits me with another question: "How do you envision that career looking, Sarah?"

"What?"

"I mean, where do you see yourself? Truly? Do you really see yourself working in a private practice?"

I've had nightmares for years where I'm back in high school taking a final exam in a class I've never attended (usually ancient Egyptian algebra), I can't find my locker, and I'm naked. I'm experiencing a similar sense of dawning horror as I fidget in my chair. "I think so. I mean, I like people, and I like helping people, and I really like psychology."

"I see." There's a sense of finality in that statement that I don't like. When Judy picks up her pen, it might as well be an executioner's ax. "The official response is going out by mail this week, but you should know that the committee has decided that you'll need to resit your examination in order to qualify for your M.A."

 ** _Thunk._**  I can feel my heart drop out of my ribs.

"And I think, Sarah, that you might want to do some soul-searching as to why you're in this program." If Judy yelled or was mean about this, I could easily get angry, but the look in her eyes is all sad concern. It's a look a mother would give a daughter. I think. "The PhD is a long haul, and frankly, if this isn't your passion, you might want to reconsider moving forward."

_**Damn.** _

But because I'm a professional, I nod and thank Judy for her time and attention, then I go home and eat ice cream. That night, I walk further than I've ever walked before. By the time I finally wind my way home, the sky is pink tinged with shots of gold. It's a beautiful sight, but I feel nothing.

* * *

The following night finds me at the Golden Rail Irish Pub, which has karaoke and the best pizza in New Brunswick. I mean, I haven't sampled every pizza in the city to make such a judgment call, but it's pretty darn good. At the moment, though, it tastes like sawdust. Shayna and Reimi are giving me worried looks that they think I don't notice. I'm glad to have friends who care, but right now it's a little hard to follow human conversation.

Something buzzes at my hip. I frown at my cell phone: it's Dad. Probably asking about me coming to dinner this weekend. I'll call him back.

"It's just an exam," Reimi says gently. "I mean, crap, when can you sit for it again? Six months? You'll totally be ready by then."

"I don't think it's that so much as Judy's concern about me going for the PhD," I sigh. Dad's buzzing me again. Annoyed, I mute my phone.

"Eh, she's a doubting Thomas. Screw her."

"No, it's a valid concern." I rub my temple, which is beginning to throb. There's a woman on stage mangling Metallica lyrics in time with the karaoke machine. "I don't know if I really see myself taking patients. When I first applied, I thought maybe I could, but after that internship at the hospital? Nah."

"Maybe a career in research?"

"Man, I hope so." I sop up tomato sauce with a bit of crust. "Otherwise, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing here."

Shayna turns away from watching the TV screen over the bar. She has a thick mane of hair and the sort of large, brown eyes you see in cartoon forest creatures. You'd expect her face to be on a billboard selling perfume, but Shayna's dream is building artificially intelligent machines. "Nothing wrong with research! It's a good, solid career path ... but it's not your love," she finishes softly, seeing the look on my face.

I can't eat anymore of my pizza. "I don't know what it is I love. I don't know if there's anything I can see myself doing. Sometimes I don't feel like I belong in this world."

"You're weird," Reimi agrees. "You have the imagination of a preschooler. But you're smart, Sarah."  _Maybe not the smartest person in the world, but perfectly average intelligence._  She doesn't say it, but it's written in her face. Reimi's sincere, if blunt. And she's right: I've always been smart enough to figure things out.

"Your brain scares me sometimes, though," she continues.

I laugh despite myself, not sure if I should be insulted. "How so?"

"I mean, you don't think like other people do. You barely passed classes in college, then learned languages on the street. Sitting in a cubicle scares you, but you have no qualms with showing up on my doorstep in Tokyo. You've sold fantasy paintings for enough money to cover my rent and you've lived on your own traveling the world. You make up stories out of your head like a little kid, and you can make adults believe them. I agree, I don't think you're of this world at all. You're either a superhuman or a changeling."

"Stop," Shayna chides her, then looks at me. "You're young. It's natural to not have all the answers, even about your career."

I smile ruefully. "You know what I wanted to do, when I was a kid? I just wanted to tell stories, all the time. Stick me in a room with an audience, and I could tell them stories for hours. That's all I wanted. But I don't think there's a career path for that."

"Published author?"

"Maybe. I'd have to dream up something publishable, first."

Reimi flashes a toothy grin. "Sarah, after all your adventures, I find it hard to believe you can't think up  ** _one_  **good publishable tale."

Have you ever read a story where the energy in the room suddenly shifts? It's the turning point for the hero, when destiny suddenly awakens from a long sleep, like a Titan. Everything shrinks to this pinprick moment, and everything changes. It feels like that now. The noise around us muffles as if we're wrapped in cotton, and without understanding why, I feel a little reckless. The last 48 hours have made me punchy, I guess.

"I have a story," I say. "A true one."

"Ooh," Reimi coos, and even Shayna smiles, amused. "Swashbuckling adventure?"

I can't see my face, but I know I'm wearing a devilish grin. "Yes. I've never told it to another living soul."

"Oooooooh!" Reimi leans in. "Well, don't leave us hanging!"

Jesus, here goes.  _Williams is going to the loony bin for sure._

"Once upon a time, back when my dad and step-mother first got married, after my brother was born, I was kind of a brat." I give a theatrical flourish that makes my audience of two giggle. "I didn't want to share my father, and I still resented my mother leaving us. I didn't want this new family. So one night, I got tired of babysitting Toby, and I made a terrible wish. I read so many stories in those days, and I had such an overactive imagination. It was so bad that Karen would scold me for playing make-believe in my room instead of going out on dates."

Shayna chuckles. Reimi is grinning her usual lopsided smile.

"That night, I lost all patience, and I wished for the goblins to take my brother away forever."  _Say your right words, the goblins said._ "I ... I held him up high while a storm raged outside and yelled for the goblins to take him. It was a bratty teenager's rebellion. I didn't expect it to work. I put Toby down and went to leave - he was crying by then - and I knew something was wrong when I got out the bedroom door and suddenly he stopped crying. I ran back to his crib, and he was gone."

I rub my eyes. Now that I'm speaking about it, the memories are spilling back, memories I've forgotten for a decade overrunning my consciousness. "Things in the room started moving, little shadows darting past, always in the corner of my eye. Goblins. Real ones. Then the window flew open and this ... this  ** _man_  **stood there, but he was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen in my life. He clearly wasn't human. He wore this ... black armor and leather. There was something wrong with his eyes, and whenever he moved, glitter filled the room. I wasn't sure if  ** _he_  **was a goblin, because goblins are so small and ugly, and he clearly wasn't any of those things. But I knew right away that this had to be the Goblin King, and I was terrified. Toby was gone and I knew that the goblins really had taken him."

Shayna and Reimi aren't smiling now. They're looking at me with something approaching alarm. Do I give up now, pretend I'm playing a practical joke? Maybe I should. Except I can't. I've begun telling this tale for the first time and the words are hastening to be told, as if they're fighting to escape my mouth.

"So I said to him ... I said to him, please, bring my brother back."  _What's said is said._  "That I hadn't meant any of it."  _Oh, you didn't?_  "I begged him. I said that Toby would be so scared. I suddenly regretted being such a bitch. I think I finally realized that I'd taken out all my anger from Mom onto the only family I had left, and that I had an enormous responsibility now to someone else in the same way she'd had with me, and that I couldn't fail Toby the same way Mom had failed me, you know? He was just a baby.

"But this man, this king-"  _I've brought you ... a gift._  "-he just blew me off."  _It's a crystal. Nothing more._  "But finally I convinced him to let me try to get Toby back."  _But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams._  "He made the world around us change, and suddenly I was in another place, on a hill overlooking a labyrinth. He said I'd have to run it, like a contender in a race, and that I had thirteen hours to get through it and to his castle, or else I'd lose ..." Horrified, I can feel tears threatening. "... I'd lose Toby forever.

"So I accepted the challenge and I ran the labyrinth and the short answer is, I won. I beat him at his own game and I rescued Toby and we got to go home." But there was something else, wasn't there? Something uncomfortable, something I hadn't understood. What was ...?

"He made me an offer. I think he made me several offers, actually."  _I ask for so little._  "I can't remember. It's all so fuzzy. But I think he was hitting on me."  _Just let me rule you, and you can have everything that you want._  "I didn't understand it, I was only fifteen. But he wanted me to stay with him."  _Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave._  "When I beat his labyrinth, I destroyed his world, actually physically destroyed it. I don't think anyone had ever beaten him before. It shocked him. And in the end, he begged me to forget about Toby and stay with him, but I ignored all of that and defeated him anyway.

"Anyway, I've had this false memory rattling around in my head for the last ten years and I can't account for it. It's the most realistic waking dream ever. Sometimes I worry about my sanity. It's the driving reason behind why I decided to study psychology in the first place, not because I actually want to help patients. I'm desperate to figure out what's going on inside my own head. Nothing more."

As soon as I finish, the excited passion leaves me and I slump, exhausted, like a woman who's just given birth. All that, bottled up inside me for a decade, now out of me. The relief is electrifying.

Then I see Shayna and Reimi's faces, and a lump forms in my throat. Shayna looks disbelieving; Reimi actually looks terrified. For a long, unbearable moment, I fear the world is going to break apart ... and then Shayna beams and says, "Goddamn, Williams, you need to add acting to your repertoire. That was incredible."

I smile shakily. Reimi glances at Shayna, uncertain, but she allows a nervous grin. "Jesus, you had  ** _me_  **fooled!" she exclaims. "I seriously thought you were cracking up."

"Ha," I reply. I don't know what else to say.

"I mean,  _ **Jesus**._ " Reimi laughs and runs her hands through her hair. The tense energy at the table vanishes, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "You need to write that down and publish it, Sarah. Or perform it onstage, or something. Where'd you get the idea for this Goblin King? He sounds like a kinky bastard."

I still can't talk, so I just shrug and flutter my hands in what I hope will be taken for a carefree gesture.

"Damn. I need a drink. Beer, Shayna? Sarah? Oh, that's right, Sarah, you don't drink. Hey, Craig!" she shouts at the bartender. "Two beers for me and Shayna, and a Safe Sex on the Beach for our girl Sarah, here." The beers arrive as soon as she's ordered them, and Reimi immediately raises hers to me with her toothy grin. "To great story-telling!"

 _But it wasn't a story._  It's a real delusion I've been having for the last decade. Suddenly, I want to throw up.  _It's probably time to pack it in and go home._

I pull out my phone to check the time and immediately frown. 17 missed calls?  ** _17?_**  They're all from the last quarter of an hour, while my phone was on silent. Nervous, I pull up the history, and my anxiety spikes: Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Karen, Toby, Dad.  _Something's wrong._ I begin to dial home when I catch the horrified look on Reimi's face. Confused, I turn and look where she's looking. To where the entire crowd is looking. At the TV set over the bar.

A news chopper is flying over a house. No, a mansion. Red ticker tape rolling across the bottom lets us know that somewhere, something extremely bad and extremely important has happened. "Turn it up!" somebody yells. The bartender scrambles for the remote, and suddenly sound bellows from the TV.

"-on the scene. Police have identified the victim as Hollywood celebrity Linda Young, star of stage and screen, and widely considered one of the best actors of her generation. Initial reports indicate suicide." The screen abruptly cuts to a crying woman with curly hair and a lisp. Off-screen, reporters shove microphones into her face and blind her with camera flashes.

"I knocked once," the woman mumbles, "but she didn't answer, so I go in, and there she is on the bed."

"Was Ms. Young alone?"

"Yes." The woman wipes at her face. The tears are openly falling now. "I was there for her massage appointment, but she ... she wasn't answering her phone. When I went in, she was just lying there with bottles of wine. At first, I thought she was passed out, but then I saw the pills, and the note."

The screen cuts to the iron bars flanking a driveway, covered with yellow tape. On the street, onlookers hug each other, cry, hold candles. The voice-over continues: "The death of Linda Young has already sent shock waves through Hollywood and the world."

The camera cuts to the crowd of mourners. "She was my idol," sobs a woman.

"I remember seeing her in  _The Last Hustle_ ," says a man. "I think that was her first major role. I was blown away. It was like watching Al Pacino the first time you saw  _The Godfather_. You knew you were watching the beginning of something real special, something for the history books. I can't believe she's gone."

The camera jumps to the face of a famous director, who's obviously trying to escape the crush of reporters. "I don't know what to say. I just heard about it. I'm devastated. I think everyone is. Linda was my muse. I'm sorry, I ... I can't do this."

Another cut, this time to an older man in uniform behind a podium. "At approximately 4 PM, our department received a call reporting a death at the residence in question. Officers arrived to find the deceased alone in the master bedroom, where she was quickly identified as the actress, Linda Young. Officers immediately quarantined the scene to begin an investigation. The Los Angeles medical examiner's office was contacted, and responded; an autopsy is scheduled for today. The L.A.P.D. is asking anyone who might have further information to please come forward."

Another cut, back to the studio. Two news anchors with perfectly-coiffed hair shake their heads and pretend to look grim. "Absolutely tragic," says one. "Linda Young's career spanned twenty-five years, forty films and six Broadway productions, and enjoyed a box office draw that rivaled those of colleagues like Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp. Only time will tell what mark her untimely passing will leave on the rest of us."

My feet may as well be nailed to the floor, and I'm clutching the phone in both hands as if it's my only hope for salvation. "Oh. Fuck."

* * *

_To be continued._


	5. Time out of joint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I heard a comedian make a great joke once about the brother of Jesus Christ - the joke being that, of course, nobody ever remembers the brother of Jesus Christ. That's remarkably what it feels like being the daughter of a celebrity. For years, Mom viewed me as an extension of herself, a chip off the old block, a doll for her to dress up and show off to her famous friends.

_The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,  
_ _That ever I was born to set it right!_

\- Hamlet, Act 1, scene 5

* * *

_Sometimes I don't feel like a person at all. I'm just a collection of other people's ideas._

-David Bowie in a 1972 interview with Ingenue magazine

* * *

Time is more malleable than we think. When I witnessed that man run over by a car in Moscow, time even seemed to stop. As I stand there in the bar, frozen, listening to CNN inform me about my own mother's suicide, I feel as if I've entered an alternate reality where time is negligible altogether, where I don't have a body, don't have a brain, don't even exist. But I must exist, because I can distinctly hear three separate voices inside my head, as if I've split into three different people.

The first voice is saying:  _My mother is dead. Oh, my God, my mother is dead._

And the second voice is saying:  _The first voice is saying: My mother is dead. Oh, my God, my mother is dead._

And the third voice says nothing. It just screams and screams and screams.

* * *

Shayna is hustling me out the door. It's hard to move my legs. I think I've just banged my shin on something, but I don't really feel it. A part of me registers a sensation that my brain tells me is pain, but it's an unimportant footnote. We step outside and Reimi is running for the car. There are seven people standing on the sidewalk, smoking. Seven. Two plus two plus two plus one.

One of them, a drunk girl in a miniskirt, squints at me and says, "Hey, anybody ever tell you, you look like Linda Young?"

Shayna is saying something to the girl. I think she's telling her to piss off, because the girl calls Shayna a stupid bitch. It starts to rain. I can't feel my hands. Reimi's car screeches up to the curb, and Shayna pushes me into the back seat and jumps in next to me. I'm mumbling, "My phone. My purse."

"Don't worry, I got them." Shayna hands me my stuff. My hands are shaking so bad that I drop the phone and she has to search for it on the floor. Time has slowed down even more than I thought. We should be back at my apartment by now, but Reimi hasn't even made it to the next block. I can see her mouth moving in the rear-view mirror, but I can't make sense of anything she's saying.

After five years, Shayna finally finds my phone, but instead of giving it back to me, she makes a call on it. "Hi, Robert? It's Shayna. I - yeah, we have Sarah ... Yeah, we just found out ... No, she's kind of in shock right now. Should we bring her to your house? ... Okay, we're about an hour away. No worries, we got this."

My mouth moves. "Boudica."

"Huh?"

"Boudica's at home. We need to pick her up." I want my dog. I want my dog. I want my dog.

"Roger that, Captain," Reimi says from the driver's seat. The trip home is agony. I live fifteen minutes from the bar on most days, but tonight it takes a million years. By the time we finally roll into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I want to leap out of the moving vehicle. Instead I slowly open my door and climb out on India rubber legs, totally forgetting my purse and phone (again), and Shayna has to bring them to me (again). We take the elevator up to the fourth floor in total silence, and we remain quiet as we walk down the hall to my front door and through my front door and Boudica bounds up to me woofing exuberantly and I can't believe my apartment looks so different in the span of just three hours since I left it. Three hours ago, my mother was alive, and now she's not.

As soon as I enter the apartment, I drop everything in my hands and plop onto the floor and hug Boudica, who tries to lick my nose right off my face. I respond by burying my nose in the scruff of her neck and she, perhaps sensing that something is wrong, stops wiggling and lets me hug her.

Reimi speaks softly beside me. "Sarah, do you want to pack a bag?"

I finally look up at them both. Sensation has reentered my limbs, and it's easier now to focus on people's faces. "I don't even want to leave. Not tonight. I don't think I could stand another car ride right now."

Shayna is about to say something, but a look from Reimi silences her. "Do you want us to stay? We can sleep in here."

"I ... I don't want to inconvenience you guys."

"Sarah," Shayna says, "of course it wouldn't." The lump in my throat has returned, and I can only nod.

* * *

While Reimi and Shayna brush their teeth, I barricade myself in my room to make a difficult phone call. "Dad?"

"Oh, honey." My father sounds so remarkably sad, and I ache for him. He loved Mom once, too. "You heard?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, you were trying to call me and I ..."

"I'm sorry, too. I got the call shortly before the networks did. I wanted to reach you before you saw the TV, but I didn't make it in time." Dad hesitates. "How're you doing, Pumpkin?"

"They're saying she killed herself."

"Yes. It sounds like they have to do an autopsy first, but so far it looks like suicide."

"That's so typical of Mom. She never did think of anyone but herself."

There's an anxious pause, but then Dad replies, "I'm afraid that's an accurate assessment."

"The funny thing is? We spoke on the phone a few years ago and I told her, I told her she's an alcoholic and that it would kill her. Was an alcoholic, I mean. She wouldn't hear it. And the funny thing is, it might not have been alcohol anyway, but pills, and it was intentional. I was so off."

"Your mother made a lot of bad choices, Sarah, not just with the drinking, or even the affair. It's why the marriage failed. I ... we never really spoke about it, you and I. After all, she was still your mother, and I didn't want to speak poorly of her to you."

"I appreciate that, Dad. But I've known for years that she's a poisonous person. No sense pretending otherwise, I guess." I can hear Reimi laughing in the bathroom, and Boudica barking. I bite my lip and tap my foot against the headboard of my bed. "Watching the news was surreal. Everybody in America is grieving this idol they've built up in their heads. It's like nobody knew the real Linda Young but us."

"Your mother was an incredibly charming woman, Sarah. That's what a narcissist does best."

I flinch. "You think Mom was a narcissist? Like, real, bona fide narcissistic personality disorder?"

"I had my suspicions. None of it really matters now, I don't think."

"Guess not."

"Will you attend the funeral?"

"I ... God, I guess there'll be a funeral, won't there?"

"Yes, and unless she's changed her will since we divorced, there's a distinct possibility she'll be buried in New York. If so, I imagine the funeral will be here instead of L.A." Dad pauses. "Of course, if you want to go, we'll go together. Strength in numbers and all that."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Any time, sweetheart. Are you coming here tonight?"

"No, I think I'm going to stay home. I just need to be alone."

"I understand. Let's touch base tomorrow, alright?"

"Okay. Love you, Daddy."

* * *

Reimi crashes the couch and Shayna curls up on the living room rug with some of my spare bed linens. I can hear them breathing from my bedroom, and I know this because that night I don't even get my usual one hour of sleep. I don't sleep at all, just stare at the ceiling and count every crack I can find (five), then recount them again and again while Boudica snuffles in her sleep next to me. I could be out walking, or reading, getting something done, doing something with my hands, but my friends are here and I have to stay in this bed. Probably for the best. In my current state, it's not a good idea to be out walking around. I'd walk into traffic and not even realize it.

Two days ago, my future was planned out perfectly and everything made sense. Now, nothing does.

* * *

I heard a comedian make a great joke once about the brother of Jesus Christ - the joke being that, of course, nobody ever remembers the brother of Jesus Christ. That's remarkably what it feels like being the daughter of a celebrity. For years, Mom viewed me as an extension of herself, a chip off the old block, a doll for her to dress up and show off to her famous friends. After she abandoned us, I could never quite escape her influence. As I entered puberty, even total strangers felt the need to comment on how much I resembled that famous woman in that movie, which is why to this day, Reimi and Shayna are some of the only people who even know who my mother really is.

For this reason, the next week is pure hell. The life and death of Linda Young remains fodder for every newspaper in the country, and nobody will stop talking about it: not my classmates, not my Starbucks barista, not my Facebook feed. I'm almost completely alone in my grief. What can I say? Thank God, I have several months before I have to worry about resitting my qualification exam. Right now, remembering to tie my shoes is about all the responsibility I can handle.

The following Tuesday, I'm leaving my Psychopathology class when my phone buzzes. Alarmed, I answer it without even checking to see who it is. "Hello?"

"Hello, may I please speak with Sarah Williams?"

"Speaking?"

"Ms. Williams, my name is Janice Li. I'm an attorney with Johnson, Shaw & Sanders, representing the estate of Linda Christine Young. Is now a good time to talk?"

My stomach burns a fist up into my lungs. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Um, can you hold on just a second?"

"Of course."

I hurry away from the doors leading into the Psychology department and find an empty bench, far away from the crowd of students filtering in and out of the building. When I finally sit, I pull my hair up into a ponytail and give my face a few reassuring pats before I pick the phone back up. "Okay. Sorry about that, um, Janice. So ... So, you're calling on behalf of my mom?"

"Yes. I'm terribly sorry about the passing of your mother, and I know you probably have a lot going on. My job is to make this process go as smoothly and quickly as possible for you."

"Okay."

"Ms. Williams, I've been appointed the executor of your mother's will, which asked that our office contact you in the event of her death and let you know that her funeral will take place in her home town of Upper Nyack, New York." That's also my home town. I blink. Dad was right, Mom's not being buried in L.A. "You should also know that you are her sole beneficiary."

"What?"

"She's left her entire estate to you."

The birds outside are singing awfully loud today. For a minute, their chirping is all I can hear. Then, finally, I stutter, "Isn't there supposed to be a reading of the will or something?"

"That's usually just in movies. Very few probate lawyers do that anymore, literacy rates being what they are nowadays. You'll receive an official letter in the mail, but since I'm telling you about her upcoming funeral, I may as well tell you now that you're her sole heir."

This can't be real. I don't want anything of Mom's, don't want anything of hers in my life. Not her property, not her money, not her name. But because I can't think of anything else to say, I reply, "Okay."

"Do you have a pen? I can give you the name of the funeral home handling your mother's burial."

"When is the funeral?"

"Saturday. Ready?"

I fish through my backpack for a pen and uncap it so fast that the cap falls into the grass somewhere where I can't find it. Without pausing, I pull out a notebook and flip it open. "Ready."

"It's Phillip L. Hull Funeral Home, (555) 555-3498. Ask for Mr. Louis Starkweather. The service begins Saturday at 10 o'clock, and the presiding priest will be Father Joseph Di Alberto of Saint Anne's. She's to be buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Tarrytown, New York."

"... so, she's getting a Catholic service?"

"Yes, it was your mother's wish."

"I thought ... I mean ..."

"In recent years, the Catholic church has eased its stance on burial for suicide victims." Ms. Li's voice is very gentle. "Most parishes now leave the decision up to the local priest without having to go through the archbishop for approval. Father Di Alberto has decided to grant your mother's wish, and he will officiate at the funeral."

The lump makes a return to my throat. It's been very difficult speaking, the last few days. I nod my head until I realize that Ms. Li can't see me, so I finally say, "Okay, great. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss Williams. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to call our office."

When I hang up, I stare at the phone for a moment, feeling as if I've just been dragged over broken glass. Then I decide to bypass lunch and head early to the General Psychology class I teach. I spend the next thirty minutes sitting in a daze until my students filter in. The noise they're making might as well be the excited chirping of the birds I just heard outside - nothing they say makes much sense. I never realized before how young they look. They're not much younger than me, but suddenly they look like babies.

I shake myself off and focus on the fifty faces looking my way. "Okay, welcome back, everyone. Today, let's continue with last week's discussion on basic neuroanatomy ..."

Most everyone by now has settled into their seats, but a boy named Bauer, sitting in the front row, jabbers away to a friend. People shuffle around in their chairs, so the hall is noisy, but I can still catch the tail end of Bauer's monologue. "-fucking killed herself. What a waste. I rented  _Judgment Day_  this weekend, the one where she has that sex scene and holy shit, her  ** _tits_** -" To drive his point home, he's gesturing with his hands before his chest.

"Michael!" I snap. "Shut up."

Every head in the lecture hall jerks to attention, even the kids trying to hide the fact that they're hungover. "Damn," someone mutters. Bauer sinks into his chair and glowers at me. I stare him down until he looks at the floor and zips his trap.

I turn my attention to the rest of the room. "Let's be clear about something: when I am speaking in this classroom, you are not. If you want to pay tuition just to dick around, do it on your own time,  ** _not_  **mine or your classmates'. Also, I'd like to point out that you are entering a field that studies the human condition. Although you will be analyzing data, make no mistake that at day's end, what you are really studying are people - people with dreams, fears, problems, people who suffer just as you do. If compassion and basic human decency are too difficult for you, you will not like this field and I guarantee that I will not like you, and I'm the one who controls your grade. Save yourself the time and save me the aggravation of your bullshit and get the hell out of my class."

Nobody moves. Nobody even breathes. I'm looking at a room full of mannequins. Outside, the sky has turned black, and thunder growls.

My eyes flicker to Bauer. "Show some respect for the dead."

Bauer's mouth is practically trailing on the floor. He nods once, eyes the size of dinner plates.

When I tell everyone to turn to page 290, every textbook in the room snaps open like ranks of soldiers reporting for role call. That day, no one falls asleep in my classroom.

* * *

When we arrive at the cemetery, the trees are overflowing with fat white blossoms. Despite the chill in the air that spring, the sun today is warm on my face. Toby won't stop fidgeting; he's not used to wearing a tie. When we exit Karen's sedan, I unconsciously slip my hand into his, and my little brother looks up at me questioningly and squeezes my fingers in reassurance.

"It's going to be okay. I'm here," he whispers. His face shines with the sort of youthful optimism I haven't seen in the mirror in who knows how long, and I suddenly envy him. I'm only twenty-seven, but I feel as if I've aged a thousand years. I'm suddenly reminded of that sketch I drew when I first arrived in Tokyo, that drawing of the Goblin King looking thoroughly worn out, as if he'd just been resurrected into a strange new world.

"Thank you, Toby," I whisper back. When I smile at him, it's genuine. I love this smart, sensitive, handsome boy so much.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and the surrounding town are most well-known in American culture for a late 18th century gothic tale by Washington Irving called  _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. If you're American, you've probably heard of it. If you're a New Yorker, you've definitely heard of it. Tim Burton made a movie once about the Headless Horseman and Ichabod Crane, but he filmed it on constructed sets. The actual village of Tarrytown is a quaint place with shops and bike paths, and the cemetery itself is charming in its own way. Many of the graves date back to the 1600s, though people are still being buried on the property. It's right over the river from Upper Nyack. I used to take long walks there all the time in high school. I never thought I'd be burying my mother there.

The funeral procession from Saint Anne's, mostly black limousines, looks like a line of ants. Our family pauses for a moment outside the car to watch as the other vehicles line up at the curb. Karen takes that moment to fix Dad's tie and whisper something in his ear. He nods at her, unsmiling, and glances in my direction.

I nod encouragingly back. "I'm okay, Pop."

"Good. Toby, you'll escort your sister there?" He's already got Karen on his arm.

Toby bucks up. "Yessir."

"Off we go, then."

We pick our way through the rows of gravestones, aware that we're followed by dozens of famous strangers and, although it's been discouraged, paparazzi. Chairs have been arranged at the plot, and we take some in the front row. As the other guests filter in, I try not to stare. The funeral is a Who's Who from  _People_  magazine. I spot a director, a fitness guru, at least three actresses, an action film star from the 1980's, and an aging rocker whose albums I've all collected.

Tellingly, Jeremy is not in attendance. I read up on the news years ago in high school when he and Mom split. I wonder what, or who, he's doing now.

The pallbearers arrive with the coffin and arrange it on the platform that will winch it down into the plot. I stare at the polished lid in disbelief. Everything my mother did, everything my mother was, is now reduced to this.

Father Di Alberto looks like he would feel just at home on a sound stage as in a church. He's a handsome older man with a robust speaking voice, and he gives a long speech that I don't pay attention to. I'm too busy staring at the blossoms in the trees and trying to ignore the curious glances from all the celebrities around me. A reality TV starlet I read about in a  _People_  article last year (some sex tape scandal) nudges her girlfriend, and both actually turn in their seats to stare at me. I know I share a strong resemblance with Mom - some would say I'm the spitting image of her - so I know that everybody's noticed me. For a bunch of actors, they sure suck at pretending to hide it. When the priest finishes talking, I exhale in a burst. We're that much closer to being done with this side-show.

"Would anyone like to say a few words?" Father Di Alberto asks.

Several people stand up to give speeches - most of them brief, a few long and rambling and (I suspect) fueled by one too many cocktails. All of them are effusive with their praise. My mother was brilliant, talented, fabulous, a great friend, a gem, a professional. We will never see another person like her in a million years. Hollywood has lost one of its best treasures.

Father Di Alberto glances in my direction. "Does anyone else wish to say anything?"

_Oh, God. Oh, God, don't do this to me._  I frantically shake my head. The priest raises an eyebrow but quickly redirects his attention to the crowd. "Very well." He nods at a pallbearer, who pulls a lever and begins lowering the coffin. Once it's fully nestled in the earth, the crowd stands to filter past and throw in roses and handfuls of dirt. Then it's done. I've fulfilled my obligation as a dutiful daughter, and I can go home and get away from these cameras.

"I'm sorry, excuse me, but you're Linda's daughter, aren't you?"

I'm suddenly looking into the eyes of the famous director. He looks smaller in real life. I'm actually taller than he is. Unreal. His movies scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. I can't believe I'm now standing here talking to him.

I nod. "Yes, I am. I'm Sarah." He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. "... and I definitely know who you are."

He chuckles softly. "Yes, well, that. I'm very sorry about your mother. You must know that she was an amazing woman."

"Yeah, a lot of people have told me that."

"I hear you're a painter."

"I do paint, yes."

"I'd be interested in seeing your work sometime. I think a lot of people would."

I'm aware that my family is waiting behind me, that the crowd is watching, that paparazzi are clicking away at us from their hiding spots in the trees. "Thank you for your kindness, sir, but I have no interest in riding on my mother's coat-tails."

He blinks, then laughs. "I don't, either. I don't have time for nepotism, especially when there's no talent to back it up. But I saw your work showcased down at Rutgers last year, and I didn't even realize you and Linda were related until she told me. You've got a wonderful eye. I think a lot of people would appreciate it." Before I can do anything, say anything, he's produced a card and held it out to me with two fingers. "Let me know the next time you have a show. I'd like to see what you're selling."

In my travels, I've come to develop a keen ability to read people. I sense no maliciousness in his expression or voice, no lust, nothing unsavory or sarcastic. After a beat, we seem to come to an understanding, and I nod and take his card. He beams.

Toby squeezes my elbow. "C'mon, let's go home."

My brother leads me back through the cemetery, and I don't turn around, not once, aware of the rapid-fire _click-whir_  of dozens of cameras waiting for me to do so.

* * *

What do you do when something you've loathed for so long suddenly leaves your life? Where would Luke Skywalker be without Darth Vader? Jean Val Jean without Inspector Javert? The best stories exist because of the antagonists. Without conflict, there's no story, only peace. I've lived so long without peace that the sudden quiet leaves me feeling lost, like a lifeboat adrift at sea long after the rest of the ship has gone down.

On some level, I suppose, I thought that perhaps one day Mom would see the error of her ways and we'd have a teary reunion that'd be the envy of the Academy. Her death has put the kibosh on that dream. Her suicide offers a solid ending, but no closure. There never will be closure.

By the time we return to the house, Toby has already peeled off the tie and jacket and half-wiggled out of his dress shirt. He runs up the front walk to the door whooping, waving the tie over his head like a victory flag. As my parents and I follow him into the house, my phone buzzes.

"Hello?" I answer, steeling myself.

"Hi, Ms. Williams? It's Janice Li. Got a moment?"

"I do. Why are you calling on a Saturday?"

She chuckles. "I work all hours, I'm afraid. I wanted you to know that the toxicology results will take another few weeks, but the LAPD has released to us a copy of your mother's final note. We're authorized to give you a copy, if you want to see it."

"Yes," I say without hesitation. I must want to torture myself. I give Ms. Li the fax number in Dad's home office, and when we hang up, I dash into the house like I'm racing in a roller derby. By the time I burst into the office, the fax machine has already lit up and is spitting out a sheaf of paper.

It's a long suicide note. Six pages. Mom really put time and effort into this. ( _But she couldn't call someone for help?_ ) She has - I mean, had - beautiful script. Hassan would have loved it. I skim the letter like a starving person wolfing down bread, then frown and reread the letter slowly. By the time I'm done, I'm just confused.

"Hey, Dad?" I stick my head out the door. "C'mere a sec?"

Dad has ditched the jacket and loosened the tie and looks more comfortable. When he walks in, he's rubbing his face. "What's up, Pumpkin?"

"The attorneys for Mom's estate have sent me her suicide note," I begin, and immediately wish I'd framed that differently, because Dad tenses up. "It ... it doesn't make any sense."

"Hmm." Dad takes the papers from me and reads. He's silent for a very long time, and I begin to nervously play with the paperweight on his desk. By the time he's done reading, Dad looks drained, and I feel guilty for having dragged him into this. I should have told Ms. Li:  _No, please burn the letter and don't let that damned thing anywhere near my family._

"There's no mention of you, me, any of her family or friends, nothing," I mumble. "It's all just her, her, her, and how she perceives the world has wronged her. No regrets, no taking responsibility for anything, nada. It's like the world literally began and ended with her."

"In her mind, it did," Dad says. Without warning, he leaves the office with the letter in hand and I, too startled to say anything, trail after him like a lost puppy. Wood smoke teases my nose; Dad's started a fire in the living room fireplace. When we reach it, he crumples a page up into a ball and tosses it into the flames. There's satisfaction in the way he throws it. Then he turns and offers me the rest of the letter. I take it from him and begin to crumple and toss pages with an exaggerated air. Pretty soon, the entire letter is going up in smoke.

My father and I share little smirks, like we're mischievous children on the playground instead of dad and daughter. Burning the letter is akin to an exorcism, and I suddenly feel much lighter.

* * *

Before I leave that evening, Toby runs out to me and my car, huffing, and hands me my phone. I hadn't even noticed it vanish from my purse, the little sneak. "Toby, why did you take this?"

"I had to download music on there for you," he wheezes. "Music always makes me feel better, so I gave you some of my favorites."

I scroll through my playlist and have to bite back a laugh. He's uploaded all of Metallica's greatest hits. Toby's going into eighth grade next year, and he's developing a love of metal that I can tell is going to challenge our parents' bank account. As I struggle to keep a straight face, Toby solemnly flips me the horns. "I also put Iron Maiden on there for you, and Black Label Society, and Chicken Foot, and Steve Vai, and Skid Row. Only the good stuff. Um, do you like it?"

"Like it? I love it. You're the best brother ever." I squash him in a hug and kiss his cheek.

"Ughhh, no kisses." He wipes his face and looks disgusted, but I can tell he's pleased. "Anyway, I gotta go. Dave and Josh are waiting for me at the high school. We're gonna practice our heelflips." He indicates the skateboard under his arm.

I smile. "Have fun, little brother." We hug again and I bundle into my car, where Boudica is woofing anxiously in the back seat. Time to go home and focus on creating the rest of my life ... whatever that is.

It's an hour and a half from Upper Nyack to New Brunswick. The way I drive, I squeeze by in just under an hour. By the time I pull into my apartment complex, the street lights have come on, and I can smell the neighbors cooking something delicious. Boudica is wiggling to go to the bathroom, so I take her on a quick walk around the block before I check my mailbox. Two bills, a letter from my college begging its alumni for donations, the official letter from Johnson, Shaw & Sanders with the details about Mom's will, and the official letter from the Psychology Department at Rutgers University telling me how much I suck taking tests. Coming on the tail end of a day that began with a funeral, the whole thing's almost comical.

I read my mail as we enter my apartment. I drop Boudica's leash as we walk in the door and she immediately bolts for her doggy bed and rolls around on it to make sure it still stinks of urine. Doggy priorities. There's a voicemail I missed on my phone from Reimi. I listen to it with half an ear while I put a pot of tea on to boil.

Then I notice the letter on the kitchen table.

For a split second, I wonder if I've accidentally put down some of my mail without paying attention, but the letter is completely unlike the mail in my hands.  _ **This**  _letter is sheathed in a large, cream-colored envelope that's nearly translucent. It's propped against the salt and pepper shakers, waiting. Across the front, someone's written words in a flowing, fancy scrawl that you don't see anymore outside of movies about 18th century Europe. I have to squint before I can read it, and when I do, I'm surprised to discover my own name:  _Sarah Williams_.

I flip the envelope over: a blob of bright red wax closes the flap. Someone has set a seal into the wax. The design looks like a stylized infinity loop within a ring. Very official-looking.

Boudica grunts happily as she wiggles around on her bed. I drop the rest of the mail on the floor and quickly inspect the bedroom and bathroom, but no one else is here. We're alone. The only other person with a key to my apartment is the landlord, and she wouldn't come in here even if the oven blew up. (And it has.)

I locked up before I left yesterday. I know I did. Nothing else in my place has been disturbed.  _What the hell?_

I run a nail along the flap to slice the envelope open, and something colorful and shiny immediately fills the air. Glitter. Lots of it, along with an aroma I can't place, a very earthy, masculine cologne. Maybe Cypress and Vanilla, and something else that might be Oud. Hassan used Oud in his shop - it's smokey, deeply woody, and a bit sweet in an intriguing way. It reminds me of Patchouli or Birch Tar, but Oud is far too complex for that. I never did learn the English word for it; maybe Hassan didn't know it. The Japanese called it Jinko, and I once found a store in Macao selling it under the name Cham Heong. In its natural form, it's a dense, dark resin with an unparalleled aroma that makes it prized from Europe to Asia for incense and perfumes. Today, its rarity makes it ridiculously expensive. You don't find it often, not unless you consult a merchant who specializes in it, for a hefty fee.

Despite myself, I take a deep whiff. Yeah, definitely Oud. I can't believe it.

The letter inside is written on vellum which, again, I've never seen outside of movies. The letter's script matches that on the envelope, and I have to stare for a moment to figure out what it says.

* * *

_Dearest Sarah,_

_I hope you will extend me the courtesy of reading this letter. It is not my usual habit to annoy strangers with my correspondence, but we are not strangers, are we? You were one of the few mortals to believe in me in this modern age. Perhaps you still do. In any case, once upon a time, you believed in me enough to call upon me, and I came, and I was so charmed by your faith and your imagination that I decided to grant you a gift._

_You rejected it, of course, or you thought you did, but the truth is that you did receive a gift whether you were conscious of it or not. You wanted a quest, and a solution to your brother problem, so I happily obliged. I took the babe and gave you your adventure, and in return, you defeated my Labyrinth and pulled my world down piece by piece. In the end, you got a brother who you suddenly appreciated and adored, and an experience that helped you grow up. I hope you have found these things to your liking._

_For years, I resented your victories. Now, however, I have run out of time for grudges. The fact of the matter is, I pray you have not come to resent me as I long resented you, and I hope you can understand that all I ever did was by your leave and for your happiness. I am bound by certain laws that even I cannot circumvent. If I could do this in person, I would, but you have not called upon me, so I cannot. Therefore, let this letter convey my most sincere apologies and a profound wish for a happy life for you and all you hold dear._

_I have heard it said by beings far cleverer than myself that sometimes the best gift one can give is forgiveness. At the risk of sounding arrogant: perhaps you have not spent another moment thinking of me since you left my world, but in the event that you have, and have felt any regret for anything you did, I would tell you that I forgive you, and if I lost you, at least the world above has gained an artist with a creative eye so lovely that the gods themselves would weep in shame at the beauty of your vision. If I was to be bested, at least it was by the best._

_Your servant,_

_Jareth Rex_

* * *

I read the letter once. Twice. By the third time, the tears are coursing down my face and I've somehow slid down the front of my refrigerator into a crumpled pile on the linoleum. I'm pretty sure if I remove the hand clamped over my mouth, I'll bawl. This is not real. It's not. Every single fact I know about the nature of reality and the universe has just been irrevocably violated.

I forget about covering my mouth, and suddenly I'm making the sort of terrible, noisy sobs you expect from small children. I can't even control my breath. Boudica trots in, alarmed and whining, and proceeds to lick the salt off my cheeks. Even that doesn't help. I feel like I'm going to cry until the world falls down, until my body flies to pieces, until I have no more pain within me to release.

Forgives me? He  ** _forgives_  **me? My own mother couldn't forgive me, otherwise why would she have left me in the first place? I have spent over a decade - no, longer than that, I have spent my entire life feeling like an alien. The girl who saw faeries, who had an overactive imagination, who could sit still in neither classroom nor cubicle, who traveled everywhere yet belonged nowhere. Now a make-believe king has written to validate everything I've always known, everything I've been furiously hunting for the last ten, twenty years.

By this point, I'm almost howling.

_Shayna and Reimi? Would they do this?_  Who else? They're the only ones who know about my labyrinth delusions. How coincidental that only a week after I finally spill the beans to someone, I get this letter?  _I thought they were my friends. What kind of sick, cruel ...?_

_... but how could they have gotten into the apartment?_

_No, they've been kind to me. They wouldn't do this._

_But then, how? **How?**  And even if someone knew enough to pull off this prank, and could get into my place, where did they get the vellum, and learn how to write with a quill? Nobody does this anymore._

The tears have calmed down, and my ragged sobs slow to hiccups. I inspect the letter again.  _Jareth?_ _  
_

That's right. The Goblin King was only a title. He had a name, a personal name just like I do. The dwarf shared it with me by mistake when I first arrived. Jareth. It sounds about right. It suits him.

Boudica whimpers and runs her tongue over my nose. I pull her to my chest, and she thumps her tail against the floor. I suddenly feel strung out. Dazed, I wander into my bedroom, Boudica on my heels, and she hops into my bed like she owns it. Normally, I'd laugh. Right now, even laughter requires energy I don't have.

I pull on pajamas: a T-shirt and flannel pants. Something cozy and comforting. I've dropped the Goblin King's ... Jareth's ... whoever's letter on the carpet, so I carefully put it on my dresser and curl up with Boudica, who nibbles affectionately on my hair like a worried mother. I hit the light and wait to fall asleep. It always takes hours.

Surprisingly, I'm asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.

* * *

The problem with insomnia is that you don't dream. You simply don't have enough time to reach REM. The result is that you're never really asleep, and you're never really awake. You just exist in this fugue half-state. Over the last decade or more, I've only been able to remember a handful of my dreams. Literally, a handful.

Tonight, I dream about Jim Morrison. As far as dreams go, this is rather nice. I'm seeing The Doors perform live in Chicago in 1968 (arguably the best tour of their career) and during a break, somehow I get a backstage pass. Suddenly, there he is: Mr. Mojo Risin himself, shirtless and nursing a beer. We start talking and he is  _ **really**  _into me. I'm thinking,  _ **Damn** , this is going to end well! Awesome!_

By and by, I suggest to Morrison that he come home with me, and he thinks this is a mighty fine idea. (Never mind that he has a concert to finish. The dream follows my logic.) Even though we're in Chicago, somehow we're back in New Jersey and entering my apartment, and it's the present instead of the 1960's, and Morrison still looks like a very young man, but screw continuity.

Anyway, one thing leads to another and Morrison and I are making out in my bed - and it's hardcore kissing, the kind where you're rapidly shedding clothes and heading toward third base. I'm starting to moan.

Then suddenly Morrison pulls back from me and says,  _What?_  in this angry, hurt tone, and I realize to my embarrassment that I've said the wrong name. I thought that was the sort of thing that only happened in TV dramas.

The door to my bedroom opens, and I panic for a moment, expecting my dad to walk in. Because seriously, what's the worst possible thing that could happen to you as you're getting some than for your parents to walk in? Only it's not Dad at all. It's the Goblin King. He's wearing his armor, but the look on his face is the same expression a person gets when they've unexpectedly heard their name while walking around the mall. Totally unaware, even blissfully innocent.

But when he walks in, his face changes. It's a terrible face, as if it's slammed shut like a door. He reverses the way he came without even turning his back on us, yanking the door closed with him.

I'm scrambling from the bed, ignoring Morrison's calls, running out the door half-naked. _Jareth! Wait! No!_

I dash into my living room, only it's not my living room anymore, it's a long stone corridor in a castle, and it has no end. I run anyway, calling, calling, crying, sure that I've screwed this up beyond repair, that I've done something unspeakably bad that can never be fixed ...

* * *

I startle awake and seek out my alarm clock in the darkness. The glowing numerals say it's 3:13am.  _Oh, my God!_  I got home and passed out at 8 o'clock. I've just slept seven hours for the first time since 10th grade: a record. To top it off, I had sexy dreams, even if they did end on a sour note.

A floorboard in the other room creaks, and I freeze. Boudica leaps down from my bed snarling. Wonderful. I got over my insomnia just in time to be murdered by an intruder. It figures.

I grab the baseball bat next to my bed and gingerly follow Boudica, who's clustered around my bedroom door as if she's prepared to ram her way through it. When I open the door, she charges into the living room growling. The room floods with amber light as I flip the wall switch. Everything looks untouched. The chain remains on the door. The windows are shut and anyway, there's no way someone could climb in this high up.

_Jesus! My nerves! I can't handle any more surprises this week._

Boudica has turned her attention to my dark kitchen, and she woofs happily, then sits as if expecting a treat. Without warning, a bone skitters across the floor from the shadows, and she delightedly snaps it up and trots to her bed, tail wagging.

I freeze again. Even my brain freezes. Can not compute.

And the Goblin King just ... walks out from the shadows of my kitchen. Melts forth from the darkness, really, as if he's always been there, only waiting. He looks just as he did in my dream, with his armor and black leather. He hasn't aged a day from my imagination, though now I'm almost as tall as he is. Judging from his quick inspection of me, he's noticed.

He wears a small smile that might be happy, might be sad, might be devious. I can't tell. When he cocks his head and blinks his strange eyes, I'm reminded of a bird.

Horrified, I've unconsciously backed up past Boudica and into the closed bedroom door.  _Thud, clatter, clatter, clatter._  There goes the bat. My fingers can't manage anything right now.

Our eyes follow the bat's journey across the floorboards. The Goblin King quirks an eyebrow at me. My face still can't move. I wonder if it's possible to literally die of shock. My heart is compressing itself to death inside my chest.

"I see you got my letter," he murmurs softly, "although I didn't expect you to call upon me so soon, or that I would even be around to hear it."

I shake my head. I can't take my eyes off of him. Afraid that if I do, he'll disappear again.

"Oh, yes, Sarah, but you did. Only calling my name could have brought me. Though I must say, the circumstances under which you called me raise some interesting questions." The small smile has suddenly expanded into a tremendous leer. "... for later, I promise. Might I sit?"

I shake my head again. I suddenly have the strongest desire to go back to bed. When nothing makes sense, Dad always said, go to bed. Things will be better in the morning.

The Goblin King frowns. "This truly is taxing you right now, isn't it?"

I nod. I don't think I've blinked once in the last two minutes.

His Majesty looks aghast, as if a dinner guest has been slighted in his own house. He approaches me and, despite my stiff limbs, I swiftly retreat into the door in alarm. This close up, I see the glitter in his feathered hair and smell that same smokey cologne that came with the letter. Definitely Oud. His eyes are stranger than I remember: one black velvet, the other small and ice blue like a Husky's. I think I can see another universe behind those eyes. There are little white things woven into his hair that I missed. I realize they're the dried skulls of mice and birds.

My eyes snap back to his, which appear cool and evaluating. I'm not sure what he sees in mine.

When he reaches out with a long forefinger, it's to gently push my lower jaw back into place. I guess I've been gaping. That should be the end of it, but he runs a gloved thumb along my lower lip, and then he leans in and lightly kisses the corner of my mouth.

I can feel my eyes shut, and my mouth sigh.

"Fret not," he whispers against my cheek. "I bring you the kiss of peace."

When he pulls back, I can feel the blood circulating in my limbs again, and my face is uncommonly warm. My nod this time is more fluid, less jerky. I think I might even smile a bit.

"I have not lived nearly so long without coming to understand the limits of mortals," the Goblin King says. "I think perhaps I have overfilled your cup today, so let us leave off until tomorrow."

"What?" It's the first words I've spoken to the Goblin King since he's reentered my life. Hardly auspicious.

His Majesty smiles. "Miss me already?"

"I don't know what you are or where you came from," I stammer. "Until ten minutes ago, I thought you were a childhood imaginary friend."

"I would worry for the mental health of any child who would consider  ** _me_  **their friend, imaginary or no." I don't know what to say to that remark. It hits a little too close to home. "There is an outdoor cafe nine blocks east of here when you turn out the car park and go left. It sits on a corner next to a bank, and the sign is sky blue edged in white. They serve wonderful pancakes. If you remember this interaction after you've slept a bit, meet me there."

"Pancakes?"

"I think that's what your kind call them nowadays. Flat bready things, delicious with syrup, rot your teeth. Heaven on a plate." He has a wistful look as if he hasn't even seen a pancake in ten years.

"What if I can't remember this in the morning?" I ask. "This is just a dream."

"Oh, Precious, your power of denial would be amusing if it weren't so sad." He's closer than I think, and when he caresses the side of my face, I don't even have time to flinch before I black out.

* * *

I didn't close the blinds on the window, so the sun paints warm stripes on my face when I wake up.  _Oh, wow, I slept. I actually slept._  I rub my face and burrow deeper into the blankets. There's a funny sensation around my eyes ... and I realize that there's no tightness around them. It's a common feeling, when you're an insomniac. Your eyes always hurt. I've lived with it for so long that I've forgotten what normalcy feels like.

It's almost 11 am. I remember coming home yesterday evening around 8 o'clock and falling asleep -

I bolt upright and look at my dresser. The letter still sits there. The prank letter. Despite the full night of rest - a whole thirteen hours - I still don't have any answers for this. Someone must hate me super bad to go to this much trouble to freak me out.

I stumble from the bed on wobbly legs and go brush my teeth, then make coffee. I trip when I enter the kitchen; I left the mail scattered on the floor. It isn't until I pull the eggs out of the fridge ... I don't know why, but suddenly I remember ... talking to Reimi in the bar when the news reported Mom died. Reimi's black hair. No, Jim Morrison's black hair. No, he had brown hair. Why am I thinking about Jim ...? I had a dream last night. I actually had a dream. I was seeing The Doors performing and I met Jim Morrison ... no, I was practically fucking him ... in my bedroom ... but we got interrupted by ...

Boudica chooses that moment to trot into the kitchen looking for food. When my eyes catch the heavy bone in her mouth, I suddenly remember everything else, including my nocturnal visit from the Goblin King. The memories hit me like a sledgehammer to the face. My eyes pop so much that the sockets nearly creak.

Forget about coffee, forget about eggs. I race to my bedroom and whip on jeans and a sweater. I don't even bother with make-up. I hope my hair looks alright. I'm shaking so badly that it's almost impossible to zip up my boots. By now, Boudica prances around, eager to go out, so I waste another five minutes taking her to the bathroom before shutting her back up in the apartment.

Time is slowing again. I can't move fast enough.

"Be good, sweetie," I tell Boudica as I leave. Her tail droops. "I'll be back, I promise."  _If I don't get kidnapped by a fairy king._  I smother an insane laugh. I'm losing my mind. Truth to tell, though, it would be worse if he's not really there. That would mean the magic wasn't real. I'm operating now on pure hope.

At the last minute, I decide against driving. In my current state, I might have an accident. What did the Goblin King say? Turn out the parking lot and go left, look for a cafe with a blue sign.  _If you remember this interaction after you've slept a bit, meet me there._

If he's still there. If he didn't leave. If I didn't oversleep. If he's even real. If any of it was real.

I start to run.

* * *

_To be continued._


	6. Lead me not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How deliciously funny, then, that I love children - me, the villain! Meanwhile, Sarah, the hero who defeated my Labyrinth, loathed her own brother so much that she wished him away to me, the monster who pampered and coddled him. I adore such ironies, though it must be admitted that I harbour a sense of humour that some have accused of being just this side of deranged.

_There may be two views about Humans (meaning no offence to the present company). But there's no two views about things that look like Humans and aren't._

_-_ "The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe", C.S. Lewis

* * *

_Know thyself! [...] The unexamined life is not worth living._

\- Socrates

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that humans forget themselves with age. Doubt me? Well, you'd be foolish to trust anything I say, that's for certain. But in this instance, I actually speak true. Just look at any two-year old child. They can dance, sing, tell a story, and solve your latest technical gadgets without even being able to read. Every child is an artist and a god, and every child knows it.

Then your race buggers everything up by forcing them into those assembly plants you call schools, and by the age of fifteen, most children have forgotten how to express themselves altogether. No wonder so many of you self-medicate.

Perhaps you can understand, then, why it was so easy to be intrigued by Sarah. A child teetering on the edge of womanhood, she still remembered her stories, and she still remembered me. I exist on the cusp of every person's subconscious, a monster in the dark, but most forget me around the age of four. Most children nowadays never even fully know my name, though they might recognise me as the bogeyman if they were to see me.

How deliciously funny, then, that I love children - me, the villain! Meanwhile, Sarah, the hero who defeated my Labyrinth, loathed her own brother so much that she wished him away to me, the monster who pampered and coddled him. I adore such ironies, though it must be admitted that I harbour a sense of humour that some have accused of being just this side of deranged.

All the same, when Cornelius tells me that my letter has gone rogue, that it's actually been delivered to Sarah, two things happen: one, my stomach does a tap dance that would be the envy of Fred Astaire, and two, I am overwhelmed by a feverish desire to bog goblins, which informs me that I am, happily, not nearly as injured as I originally thought. I'm far too angry to be on death's door.

Humans don't hold a monopoly on behaving stupidly when faced with the threat of their own destruction. I never should have written that letter. Sarah was only to see it in the event I'd become a grease spot.  _This is what happens when you allow sentiment lead you around by your prick. Jareth, you idiot!_

Once the initial shock wears off and my left eye no longer throbs in my skull, I notice Cornelius has retreated several feet from my bed and wears the look of a long-suffering animal trainer facing a rabid tiger. I probably owe my butler a raise, given what I put him through on a regular basis. "Perhaps Your Majesty would like some time to rest? You've been under great duress, sir."

"Yes. Yes, I think that would be best." The voice comes from me, but it's automatic. My brain has taken a little holiday.

Cornelius leaves me in privacy. My bones creak again as I burrow myself into the blankets. I'm half-naked but still too warm, and I can't get comfortable no matter how much I squirm. And of course, now I'm too aggravated to sleep anyway.  _You just unraveled your soul before a woman who stomped on and destroyed you once already, who probably thinks you're a childhood delusion. Marvelous._

When I manage to sleep, my dreams are no less discomforting - all empty, endless stone corridors which echo with indistinct human cries, until even they fall silent. I exist everywhere and nowhere, lost in a soundless void.

But then, somewhere in the world ... someone calls me. Someone is wishing away a child.

I'm still lost in the dreaming, so I don't even awaken for the call, merely reform myself back into a serviceable body, sheathed in my formidable black armour, and away we go. Taking a child might perk me up. How fortunate that wishing one away still counts even in human dreams. Makes you more aware of even your thoughts, doesn't it?

The call tears me from the echoing maze of stone, shoves me at a floating door. It is clearly human-made, with a sensible wood frame and a Klimt painting showing a pale ghost of a woman with dark hair piled atop her head, outlined in gold. I twist the knob.

Even as I do so, the cobwebs of fever and nightmares finally break free, and a tinny voice in my left ear chatters:  _Half a moment. Whoever's calling you didn't call upon the Goblin King, did they? Did they even mention a child at all? The voice called for Jareth. And the only human alive who's brave enough to use it -_

I open the door and step into hell. A nicely furnished hell, but hell nevertheless. For it's a bedroom, the walls lovingly adorned with art and photographs, the bed draped in a diaphanous curtain. And on the bed, writhing in the arms of another man, a beautiful woman with the legs of a dancer. I'm put to mind of a mature Snow White, with alabaster skin and raven hair and a cherry mouth, a fruit I want to consume. The man has frozen and is saying something angrily to her, breaking the moment, when I blithely waltz in. Both humans recoil in surprise, and the woman and I recognise each other in one horrible moment of reckoning. I can see it in the shock on her face, which mirrors my own.

Sarah.

I back up the way I came, pulling the door with me, but I can still see a sliver of Sarah as she leaps from the bed wearing little more than underwear, still calling my name.

* * *

My bones grind and pop as I jolt awake in bed. No.  ** _No!_**

This was not how this was supposed to happen. If we were to meet again, I would be formidable, not vulnerable, and Sarah would want  ** _me_** , not some wretched man who can't even conjure a crystal or move the stars.  _Although, she **did**  call upon you. Moaned for you, in fact. And that man wasn't real, just a figment of her own dreaming._ I can tell when a person is just a shadow and not truly alive. Real people smell of light and dreams and blood. This man was a creation of Sarah's mind. Good for him, because if he were real, I'd be breaking him in two.

I'm a little comforted by all this. Actually, I feel strangely pleased, like a cat that's gotten into the cream. In a moment of passion, she called for  ** _me_**. I could purr.

Where are my manners? I left the poor thing so abruptly. I have to finish this. Formidable. Keep to the formidable theme. Save some face.

I stumble from bed ignoring the pain in my joints, materialising my black armour with a thought as I hurtle back into the void.

* * *

The magick deposits me in a human dwelling, a small flat overlooking a quiet urban street. Glowing red light filters through the blinds from a neighbouring Chinese take-away place. It's a tiny home, but cozy, overflowing with bookshelves and instruments, plants and places to curl up with a cup of tea. Someone thoughtful and a bit of a romantic lives here. I can guess who.

Suddenly, the old floorboards creak under the heel of my boot, and frantic snarling explodes from the bedroom. My initial thought is that it's Sarah's soon-to-be-stardust ex-boyfriend, before I remember that  ** _that_  **was merely a dream and now we're in the physical world. I forget, sometimes. In any case, I retreat to the shadows of the little kitchen nook to watch.

The bedroom door here sports a Klimt poster, too, and as the door bursts open, a dog barrels through it. It's a big brown animal with a white chest, a bowlegged gait, and a stocky head. Some sort of pit bull, mixed with something else. I'm charmed by the dog's ferocity protecting her mistress. Anything so loyal to my Sarah deserves recompense.

The mistress herself runs out of the room, and my breath catches. Sarah looks much like she did in the dream, though sadly not as naked, wearing very sensible pajama pants and a T-shirt. T-shirts are the bane of my existence. So ugly, so unfortunate, especially when a woman could be wearing so many other things. Grecian dresses. Corsets. My ruffled shirts. History has produced wonderful fashions that look stunning on women and enhance their natural beauty. The T-shirt is not one of them.

Sarah clutches a bat in her hands, but it's the gleam in her eye that gives me pause. She's obviously nervous, but if that mad expression is any indication, she's ready to go down fighting. Now  ** _that_  **is the firecracker spirit I love.

The dog immediately senses my presence and prances toward the kitchen but refuses to leave the light of the living room. I materialise a large bone from the castle's scullery. The beast cocks her head and politely sits. Hmm, we'll have to discuss how easy it is for your guardian to be swayed by sweetmeats, Dearest. If my guards were so easily enticed, I'd have been assassinated eons ago.

In any case, I toss the bone along the floor, and the dog snaps it up before happily dancing away to the corner of the room.

Sarah freezes. When I leave the shadows to enter the light, her mouth drops. It's the same beautiful cherry mouth in my dream, and I have to fight a mad urge to taste her.  _Careful, Jareth._  She's taller than I remember and has shed the baby fat. I still see a glimmer of the girl who defeated me, though her cheeks are sharper and the sparkle in her green eyes can only be called deadly. I wonder what she's done and where she's been, the last decade. This is a woman who's seen much and hardened considerably.

It feels like looking in a mirror. I can't help my smile.

Sarah drops the bat. We watch together as it thunks against the floor and rolls away, and when I glance back at her, she's still gaping like a landed fish. For my part, I suddenly feel strangely solemn. "I see you got my letter, although I didn't expect you to call upon me so soon, or that I would even be around to hear it."

She frantically shakes her head.

"Oh, yes, Sarah, but you did. Only calling my name could have brought me. Though I must say-" My mouth curls into a wicked Cheshire Cat smile. "-the circumstances under which you called me raise some interesting questions ... for later, I promise. Might I sit?"

Sarah's shaking her head again. I don't think she's exhaled once in the last minute.

Hmm. "This truly is taxing you right now, isn't it?"

She nods. Finally.

Oh, dear me. This won't do at all. I swiftly approach her, and she retreats into the closed door in alarm, which hurts the heart. Really, it does. I keep my hands visible before me, as a sign of good faith.  _See? No weapons. I would not harm you for all the world._  This close, I see the fine details of her face, the curve of her neck and the brittleness behind her eyes. She doesn't sleep much. I know the feeling.

She doesn't flinch as I gently tap her jaw closed. And then ... I can't help it, that cherry mouth is so inviting. I run a thumb along her lower lip and duck toward her cheek, where I plant a hidden kiss at the corner of her mouth. This close, I feel more than see her entire body relax, and her final, forgotten exhale. She smells like shampoo and dog hair and something else, something undefinable, but unique to her. I want to peel that wretched shirt off her with my teeth. "Fret not," I whisper. "I bring you the kiss of peace."

It takes everything in me to pull back a respectful distance. Sarah looks dazed but ... content. The self-pleased feline inside my stomach purrs again.

Still, it won't do to overstimulate her now. I can tell she's reached her breaking point. We inspect each other, wary, but I sense a matching hunger in her, half-hidden behind her eyes. "I have not lived nearly so long without coming to understand the limits of mortals," I say after a beat. "I think perhaps I have overfilled your cup today, so let us leave off until tomorrow."

The euphoria pops like a bubble. "What?" Sarah snaps.

_Ah, ha, ha!_  "Miss me already?"

"I don't know what you are or where you came from," Sarah responds nervously. "Until ten minutes ago, I thought you were a childhood imaginary friend."

"I would worry for the mental health of any child who would consider  ** _me_  **their friend, imaginary or no." I lace my fingers over my stomach, considering. "There is an outdoor cafe nine blocks east of here when you turn out the car park and go left. It sits on a corner next to a bank, and the sign is sky blue edged in white. They serve wonderful pancakes. If you remember this interaction after you've slept a bit, meet me there."

"Pancakes?"

Oh, yes. Pancakes. "I think that's what your kind call them nowadays. Flat bready things, delicious with syrup, rot your teeth. Heaven on a plate." Orgasm of the mouth, more like. I don't care overmuch for many of the things mortals have invented, but as far as I'm concerned, pancakes redeem them all.

Sarah frowns. "What if I can't remember this in the morning? This is just a dream."

I bite back a laugh. "Oh, Precious, your power of denial would be amusing if it weren't so sad." She looks like she's about to argue, but she falls unconscious as soon as I touch her cheek again. It's an underhanded trick, I know. Technically, I shouldn't even be able to do it, as I no longer hold power over her. But I can still whisper conviction into her mind with simple spells, if she allows me. I don't think it will be so easy once Sarah fully remembers our past and the power she now wields. She'll be on the lookout, next time. I shall have to tread carefully.

Sarah pitches forward easily into my hands, and I hoist her into my arms like a doll. The dog looks up curiously from chewing on her bone but otherwise doesn't molest me as I carry Sarah back into her bedroom. It looks just as it did in my dream, with warm orange walls splashed with snapshot visuals. I instantly recognise Paris, and Tokyo, and Istanbul. Other photographs depict Sarah in other places: golden African landscapes, rolling green mountains of Europe, the bustling streets of New York. There's a boy with sandy hair and a cheeky grin who can only be young Master Tobias. I'm glad to see he's well.

I spot my letter on the vanity. It's crumpled around the edges, which shows it's gotten some careful consideration. Excellent. Our reflection stares back at me from the mirror. I look rather heroic, cradling Sarah to my chest. Such a pity she's not awake to appreciate it.

Magick parts the curtain around the bed as I deposit Sarah into it, tucking the sheet up to her neck. I'm tempted to steal a kiss, but I fancy myself a gentleman. In any case, there's no sport in it without an enthusiastic response.

I walk back into the living room, humming to myself, and cast a quick glance at the dog. For her part, she cocks her head again and wags her tail questioningly. "Well," I murmur, "this was not what we expected, but on the whole, we're rather pleased."

The dog growls in agreement, thanking me for the bone.

"You're welcome, little miss." I quickly spin a crystal ball into existence and drop it. It bounces once, then rolls its way under the sofa. I wink at the dog. "You know how to keep a secret, don't you?"

* * *

By the time I leave the flat, I'm literally shaking. It's not the giddiness of hormones but the aftereffects of my earlier adventure shutting down that rift. I'll probably be recovering for a while. I return to my bedroom and just make the toilet before I throw up. Charming. At least the fever has gone down.

I draw a warm bath and soak in it until the water runs frigid. The bath works wonders on my sore joints. I no longer feel like a contorted pretzel, and the shakes eventually dissipate on their own. I could stay in bed a few more days, really rest up, and then unwind time to meet Sarah this morning. I don't know if that would work. I don't yet fully understand the ramifications of this whole  _you have no power over me_  thing, because no one's ever defeated me before, never stood beside me on my level. Until I do, I'm not about to risk losing Sarah again.

So I refill the bath with warm water and fall asleep as I soak. It's now a matter of time waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting to see Sarah.

* * *

Happily, the cafe hasn't closed in the last ten years (or is it twenty?) since I've been here. The staff has changed. It's younger now, and overwhelmingly Latino. The young man who seats me at an outside table looks surprisingly alert this early in the morning. I've fancied all young people to be vampires, given how poorly they function before noon. I'm afraid I stare a bit. I'm not sure what fascinates me more: a youth who's chipper before 8am, or his piercings. He looks like he's had a silverware drawer thrown at his face.

My waiter stares politely back at me. I'm wearing fitted jeans and a waistcoat. Not terribly fancy, but I still stick out in an early breakfast crowd that seems to consist primarily of hungover club-goers gasping for the blackest coffee this side of Bogota. I feel steadier now after resting a bit, and my stomach no longer threatens to upload itself all over me, so Luis keeps me flush in coffee and pancakes while I read my newspaper and try not to fidget.

_She could forget, or wake up and decide to ignore me after all._  I start fidgeting. To hell with this; no one notices as I pluck a crystal from the air and stare into it. The crystal hiding under Sarah's couch comes alive and peeks out into the living room. The bedroom door in the flat remains shut, and the dog snoozes nearby. Sarah's still asleep.

_We could go into her dreams again. Wake her up._

_No, there's nothing attractive about appearing overeager. She has to come to us._

Hours pass. Luis' polite facade struggles with itself at the amount of pancakes I consume, but the lad more or less manages to maintain a straight face. For a very cultured, very thin man, I have an impressive appetite ... for a great number of things.

Late in the morning, after I've reread the entire newspaper at least three times, I check on the crystal again and am rewarded to see Sarah stumbling about the flat like a zombie. It's clear she's just woken up. The crystal on the floor rolls along, following her movements, but Sarah's too knackered to notice. She brushes her teeth, opens the window blinds, makes coffee. I'm gnashing my teeth, convinced she's not going to remember anything.

Then the dog, bless her, goes into the kitchen with the bone, and Sarah reacts as if struck by lightening. She dashes into the bedroom and returns seconds later in street clothes. Within minutes, she's locked up the dog, newly christened Boudica, and dashed off to meet me.

I stretch, relieved and content. She should be here shortly.

But that's not the end of it. Minutes later, the crystal shows Sarah dashing back into the flat. Boudica and I simultaneously jump up in alarm, which garners curious stares from fellow diners before I remember myself and settle back into my chair. Sarah runs back into her room, and then the toilet. She's gone for quite a bit of time. When she reemerges, I blink. Sarah's changed her clothes and done her hair. As she goes to leave again, she slips a leash on the clearly excited dog.

I vanish the crystal and lean back in my seat. So Sarah's dolled herself up and bringing the pooch. Curious. I like the first bit - it shows she's eager to make a good impression - but I'm not sure what the latter means. Does she want extra protection? Still frightened of me, perhaps? In fairness, she probably should be. I've proved myself a villain, and even now I'm trying to find a loophole to override Sarah's defeat of me and drag her back to the Underground. Don't think me overly cruel. I'm not human, and I don't share human morals. But I won't hurt her. What I'd originally thought to be resentment of her beating me was really, I'm rapidly discovering, grief at losing something I lusted over and loved.

This whole love business is going to be an issue, I can tell. It opens one up to vulnerabilities, which I dislike.

When Sarah arrives minutes later, it's like watching a movie character walk off a screen. I've envisioned her for years, and now here she is. She wears denim and an emerald green sweater that hugs her curves and brings out the colour of her eyes. Her black hair is luminous and pinned back from her face. Very fetching. I'd like to run my hands through it. There will be time for that, I'm sure, just not now.  _Careful, Jareth._

She doesn't spot me right away. Perhaps she expects me to be wearing my armour in a crowd of humans, which is laughable. When she finally sees me, she stares as if uncertain. I stare right back and grin cheekily, and then she knows for certain that it's me. She picks her way across the veranda, the dog on her heels, but halts with ten feet between us.

"Hello," she says, as if testing the air. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

I indicate the empty seat across from me with a nod and a smile. "I always keep my promises, Sarah." She takes a seat, and the dog follows suit at her feet. "That's quite a trained dog you have there."

Sarah beams. "I trained her myself. This is Boudica. Boudica, this is ..." She darts a glance at me, as if still in disbelief. "... this is the Goblin King."

"Please, Sarah, if there's anyone who's earned the right to my name, it's you. Call me Jareth."

"Ah. Jareth."

"What kind of dog is she?"

"I never figured that out. She was a pound rescue." Sarah glances uncertainly down at Boudica. "The closest I could figure was part pit bull, part Stegosaurus." Boudica chooses that moment to growl intimidatingly. "She's saying hi. I don't know if it's a pit thing, but she doesn't talk like other dogs. Merlin would woof and whine - he was the sheepdog I had as a kid - anyway, he never growled unless he was threatened. All Boudica can do is growl and grunt, even when she's being friendly. She sounds fearsome, but she's really not."

"Yes, I noticed when she took my gift last night."

"You're not going to kidnap my dog now, are you?"

"You-" I pause and narrow my eyes. Sarah is actually mocking me. I'm not sure whether she's incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, or whether I should be insulted at the casual nature of her comment, or pleased for the very same reason. For her part, Sarah just smiles again, and I choose to be amused. "No. Dogs are very difficult to change into goblins. And their hygiene is worse."

"So goblins are real, too."

"It would be silly being Goblin King without any goblins, don't you think?"

"I guess so."

"Would you like something to eat?"

She looks at me again, evaluating. "Sure."

"Luis?"

The waiter reappears at my elbow. "Hi. More pancakes?"

"No, I'm rather full." I can't help but notice Luis' disappointment. He's probably been hoping to see me explode. My pancake-eating skills are impressive, if I do say so myself. "But the lady would like something."

"Tea, please. Lipton with lemon. And, um, scrambled eggs and rye toast with butter." She shoots me a meaningful look. "And some pancakes."

Luis scribbles this down and dashes off. I recline back in my chair and rest my hands comfortably on my stomach. When I look at Sarah again, it's with another sly smile. "So."

" ... I don't know where to begin, honestly," Sarah says. "It's been twelve years."

I start at that. "I thought it was ten."

"No. No, it's been twelve."

This upsets me more than I thought it would. My hair is less shaggy in this disguise, and falls in blond waves to my shoulders. While I sit momentarily stunned, I tuck my hair behind my ears and notice Sarah watching me do it. "Forgive me. I sometimes lose track of time."

"Entire years?"

"What is a year when you're immortal?"

I can't read her expression. She looks like a scientist meeting a new genus of animal: fascinated but wary. "What are you?"

"Well, as you can see, I'm a man," I say pleasantly. "But that's not what you're after, are you?" She shakes her head, her eyes rooted firmly on me. "It depends on what human words you use. All of them fail to encapsulate my true nature. Some of you call us djinn, or fae, or gods. All of these would suffice. We have existed since the dawn of time, hiding behind the scenes to shape the worlds and give them steam. Most of you don't admit to believing in us anymore, but I think, on the whole, more of you believe in us than you'll say aloud at a dinner party."

"So not angels, then."

"No, thank goodness. Angels are a different breed of being altogether."

Sarah juts her chin, thinking. "Why did you send me that letter?"

I retort to her question with one of my own. "How about a little game? You ask me things and I ask you things."

"Quid pro quo, yes or no. I've seen  _Silence of the Lambs_ , thanks."

"Well?"

"Is there a penalty if someone loses?"

Ah, not so blissfully innocent then. Very clever. "No. No winning or losing in this game. Merely a free and equal exchange of information, to reacquaint ourselves after the passage of so many years ... and might I remind you, it's not as if we knew each other well to begin with, way back when. So?" Sarah shifts in her seat but, after an uncertain beat, nods her head. "Excellent. What have you been up to since you left the Underground? Start with high school and work your way to the present."

"What if you ask a question I don't want to answer?"

"You probably should have considered that before you agreed to my terms. But if you don't want to answer something, you needn't." No sense putting her on guard and pissing her off this early.

Sarah thoughtfully rubs the top of Boudica's head, considering for a minute. It's a long minute. I have the distinct impression that she's taking twelve years of thoughts and assembling them in an orderly line. "I graduated high school early. I was just seventeen."

"Were you in trouble?"

"No. Nothing like that. But apparently I worked through the course load faster than expected, so I had the chance to graduate early, and I took it. School was horrible, the kids were mean, I hated sitting at a desk memorising facts about dead white men. The whole system was ass backwards. I was eager to get out."

I nod encouragingly.

"I went to college at SUNY Stonybrook - it's part of the state college of New York - and studied psychology. I doubled up on courses so I could finish early. After graduation, I got a job in an accountant's office, answering the phone and helping do the books. I was only twenty, I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life, so I sort of fell into the job. It paid the bills and gave me something to do with my hands. I lasted three months."

"Only three?"

"I got depressed sitting behind a desk. I'd gone from one prison to another: school to office. I couldn't stand it. I came home one day and couldn't paint anymore or write music. Just ... nothing would come. That's when I knew I had to get out. I'd applied senior year to a teaching position in a French high school, and my acceptance came during that time. As soon as it arrived, I took it and ran. I taught English in Tours for a year."

"Strange that you would hate school so much and then go on to become a teacher."

"Isn't it? I thought so even then, but I figured it would be better if it was a French school."

"Was it?"

She ponders that. "Yes and no. The kids were obviously just as miserable in some ways, though I think French schools are a little different, socially, than American ones. More cohesion. They still hated studying, and they practically itched sitting in their chairs all day. But I got to stand and move around the room -" Whether she's aware of it or not, Sarah is now speaking emphatically with her hands, as if she's again working from a podium. "-and I found that I do love speaking and teaching. Plus, I had a little apartment on a cobblestone street next to an open market. There was plenty to see and eat. I was never bored. I learned French, and the city had several libraries. It was an adventure."

"And then?"

"My contract ended after a year, but I didn't want to go home. I just ... got on another plane. I was twenty-one then. I spent the next four years traveling the world, hopping from place to place and job to job."

"Where did you go?"

Sarah pauses, as if she herself isn't certain. When she answers, she has to tick off her fingers. "After Tours, it was Rabat, Nairobi, Cairo, Chiang Mai, too many cities in China to list, Ulaanbaatar - that's in Mongolia - Paris, Istanbul, a bunch of places in Japan, Prague, Berlin ... honestly, I'm missing at least a dozen. I spent anywhere from a few weeks to months in any one location. I got local jobs teaching English or busing tables, or I worked long-distance on my computer. I came back to the States at twenty-five, enrolled in graduate school for psychology, and here I am, having breakfast with the Goblin King. Why don't you know what I've been up to? Haven't you been able to check in on me?"

That's two questions.  _Polite, Jareth. Let it go._  "I've been a little distracted the last twelve years."

"Doing what?"

"What's your favorite food?"

"What?"

"No, no, it's my turn."

Sarah scowls. "I ... chestnut jam, I guess. On a baguette. Why haven't you been able to check in on my life? I haven't exactly been difficult to find."

I sigh and run a gloved finger over the rim of my water glass. "I have spent the last dozen years rebuilding my world. When you defeated me, you destroyed it."

Sarah goes very still. "How?"

"Words have power, my dear. Surely you know that by now."

"Rebuilding ... is everyone alright? There was a dwarf, and a knight-"

"They're quite alright, I assure you. But it's been a difficult haul. I haven't slept much." Smiling, I indicate the corners of my eyes. Despite my recent victory rebuilding the Underground, they still have that tight feeling that comes with insomnia and restless sleep.

"I haven't slept much either," Sarah admits.

"Oh? How long?"

"Since fifteen, I think. About the time I ... I defeated you."

We stare at each other for a long minute. Luis suddenly reappears with a steaming platter of food, which he deposits before Sarah with a flourish. After an uncomfortable pause, he notices our awkward silence and leaves with a hurried apology. The eggs and pancakes smell delicious, but Sarah ignores them. She looks just as frozen as I feel.

Finally, I ask, "Do you remember your dreams?"

"... No." Sarah's voice is very small. "Not really. Twelve years of little sleep and no recollection of my dreams. The first dream I can remember having is the ..." She looks away.  _The dream you had this morning,_  I finish silently for her.  _The erotic dream I interrupted._ "Why did you send me that letter?"

I carefully inspect her face, which has turned back to regard mine. I momentarily debate whether to lie. The truth wins out. "I was going on a very dangerous journey in a last-ditch effort to save my kingdom. I didn't expect to come home again, so I wrote you."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Faced with certain doom, I suppose that you were the only person in all the worlds I wanted to say good-bye to."

"Is everything alright now?"

"I think so. I triumphed in the end, amazingly, and saved my kingdom. I came home alive."

"Can gods be killed?"

I'm watching a child kick and scream at his mother as she drags him down the boulevard, but it doesn't distract me from lobbing another question at Sarah: "What is your happiest memory?"

My blatant redirect doesn't even annoy her this time. She drums her fingers thoughtfully on the tablecloth. "There is a frozen desert plain in central Anatolia, 500 miles from Istanbul. I rode a horse across it, from Ankara to Kayseri, with a guide. I had never seen such an empty place in my entire life. New York is all mountains. Turkey has mountains interspersed with plains, without a stick of wood for as far as the eye could see. Before I'd seen it, I'd never even imagined it. Once you reach Kayseri province, there aren't any big cities apart from the capital, which is also called Kayseri. Even that city doesn't have the population or the sheer amount of electricity that the east coast has here. The air pollution in Kayseri is terrible, but out in the countryside, in the mountains ... at night, you can see the stars, all of them, in all directions. It's so dark that nothing in the world exists beyond the rim of your camp fire, except for those stars and the sounds of wild animals. It was frightening but exhilarating. I felt alive, and more connected to the Earth than I've ever felt living in any place with pavement and steel."

Sarah pauses to nibble at her eggs. "When we got to Kayseri, I took hang-gliding lessons. The owner was a grizzled old guy who didn't speak a lick of English, so Mehmet had to translate, only Mehmet couldn't maintain a serious conversation to save his life. Every time the owner got frustrated with me, Mehmet would crack jokes. It was awful but hilarious. Anyway, we started on rolling hills before progressing to the mountains. We stayed in Kayseri for three weeks. I learned just enough Turkish to buy food and receive lessons from Mr. Burakgazi. By the last week, I was flying. It was terrifying kicking off. But I thought I was either going to do it or die, so I did it. I learned early that the first time you fly, your stomach drops on you and your throat locks up, so you have to remind yourself to breathe. But after that, it's smooth sailing. You're a bird."

She smiles. "And you, what's your happiest memory?"

_Sitting here with you. The day I found Aydin._ Too much baggage associated with both these answers. "I respectfully choose not to answer. Ask me another."

Sarah looks surprised. "Ah, okay ... so, what now?"

I blink. "How do you mean?"

"Here you are, poof, you exist, you're here. Magick is real. Faeries are real. Everything that happened between us, it's all real. Where do we go from here?"

_Ah, how kind of you to ask. Poker face, Jareth._  "I suppose it depends a great deal on your own desires, Sarah."

She starts at that. "Excuse me?"

" ** _You_  **defeated me. In all the history of creation, no other human has ever pulled a fast one on me. Not like you did. Whatever happens next, you're in the driver's seat." I manage a little smile that, despite myself, is a tad bitter. "How is your family? Tell me about them."

"I-" Sarah flushes. She desperately wants me to continue answering her. "They're fine. What did you mean by me being in the driver's seat?"

"Finish my last question."

"I will as soon as you finish  ** _my_  **last question."

"Tch. You defeated me, Sarah. Isn't it obvious?"

" _You have no power over me,_ " she recites softly.

I hate those words. "Yes, yes. Power was freely earned. You declared yourself my equal. I can't help but wonder if that's the cause of our mutual insomnia the last twelve years, and why you can't remember your dreams from all that time." She doesn't understand, I can tell from her expression. "For better or worse, you now share my power, and we clearly connect in the dream time. I wouldn't be surprised if, on some level, and in your dreams, you've been helping me rebuild the Underground."

"That's ridiculous!" Sarah laughs.

"Is it?" I ask tersely, and of course she doesn't have a response to this. I lean forward onto my elbows and cock my head. "How is your family, particularly young Tobias?"

Sarah doesn't move. "He's fine."

"That's it? I answered  ** _your_  **question in good faith."

She bites her lip but doesn't answer.

"Sarah ... your brother is safe from me."  _For now._

"He's a student. In middle school." The words sound like they're being wrenched from her. "He's a good kid. Very sensitive and smart. I love him to pieces."

"So you would say your adventure in my Labyrinth bettered your relationship with him?"

If looks could kill, Sarah would have just incinerated me with her eyeballs. "Yes. Don't rub it in, please."

I lean back in my chair and soften my expression. It seems to work; Sarah relaxes. "My apologies. And your parents?"

"Dad's good. Karen's good. I've gotten along with Karen for years. I think, with maturity, I came to understand just what a kind person she is. I look to her as a mom."

"And your own mother?"

"Dead." The word tumbles onto the table like a pebble. "She killed herself last week."

My hands fall to my thighs. I really don't know how to respond to this, so I settle for a pathetic, "I'm so sorry."

Sarah shrugs. "That's life." She picks up her fork and, for the first time that morning, begins to eat her breakfast in earnest. I sip tap water absent-mindedly as she devours everything with ravenous little bites. Despite my embarrassment at the awkward turn of conversation, I find myself strangely aroused. There are few things as enticing as watching a woman eat. I find it akin to foreplay. Finally, Sarah sucks a dollop of maple syrup from her forefinger (and completely misses the spark in my eyes as she does so), then tosses her cloth napkin onto the table. "So, what is this about me being in the driver's seat?"

"I suppose you don't understand the enormity of defeating a god in his own realm?"

"Sorry, Goblin King, we didn't cover that in school."

"It's simple, really. You control where you go from here. You share my power and, though it kills me to admit it, my allegiance."  _More or less._  I can still twist things around and, if all goes well, I'll have Sarah back under my thumb and home with me faster than you can say Jack Robinson. "So with that in mind, I've brought you ..." I pluck a crystal ball out of the air. "... a gift."

_Screech!_  Sarah has shoved herself and her chair away from the table. Hidden beneath the table at Sarah's feet, Boudica growls in alarm. Her mistress regards the ball in my hand as one would a viper. "What is that?"

"You know quite well what it is."

"I don't want it!" she practically spits.

"Sarah. Look at me, please." Her eyes lock with mine. Behind the anger, I see very real fear. "You are not  ** _making_  **a wish. I'm offering you one with no strings attached. A boon from war, freely earned."

She shakes her head. "If there's anything I've learned the last few years hopping the globe, it's that there's no free lunch."

"No. You won it from me, the defeated sovereign."

"There's nothing you have that I want."

"Isn't there?"

A cold pause. Sarah's mouth is trying to say no, but I can see the doubt nibbling at the darkest recesses of her mind.  _Oh, yes, there are things you want._  Everyone has something. A good career? A living mother? Me?  _I hope it's me._  I'll have to ensure it is. I roll the ball into my hand, making it disappear as it goes. Despite her anger and fear, Sarah watches me do it with the fascination of a child at the circus.

"Think on it," I say lightly. "If you don't want it, don't take it. But don't say I was never generous." I smile and, for the first time that morning, I show teeth. They're very sharp. "Why don't you take a week and think it over? If and when you think of something, you know how to call for me."

Sarah nervously drinks her cold tea, her eyes never leaving me.

* * *

We part ways after lunch, when the sun has already begun its descent into the west. Sarah lets me pet Boudica before they leave, and then she unexpectedly thrusts her hand out to me. I regard it curiously before I gently take it, and I realise that, apart from the brief kiss last night, this is the first time I've ever touched her. "Thanks for breakfast," Sarah murmurs. "And the letter. For whatever it's worth, it helped a lot with ... with everything from the last week."

"My pleasure." Without breaking contact with her gaze, I lift her hand and lightly kiss the back of it. Sarah's breath hitches. I swallow a smile.  _Poker face, Jareth._  "Don't be a stranger."

I turn away from her first and walk down the street humming to myself, hands in my pockets. I don't turn around, not once, aware that she's watching me as I go.

* * *

Turkish Delight must be eaten fresh, when it comes in soft, chewy rolls. You don't want the hardened, vacuum-sealed garbage you find sitting on shelves in non-Turkish communities in America and Europe. As soon as I leave Sarah, I head immediately for Sultanahmet - the old part of Istanbul that was once called Constantinople, before the city swallowed up the surrounding hamlets and villages into the metropolis you know today.

I have heard some refer to Istanbul as the Paris of the Middle East. That part of the world has many lovely cities, so it's difficult to bestow such a moniker on just one. However, I think Istanbul would be a serious contender for the title. I would go so far as to say that Paris is the Istanbul of western Europe. A crossroads of cultures and languages for many centuries, Istanbul is today a mecca of art, architecture, business, food, and culture. You can always tell which teams are winning during the football season, because fans take to the streets with home-made banners, cheering at the top of their lungs. I would be worried to see Turkish and Irish football fans clash at a game in the same way housewives fear accidentally mixing bleach and ammonia.

Turkey is, strictly speaking, a secular country; yet five times a day, the  _müezzinler_ call the faithful to worship by singing over the loudspeakers of the mosques. Each müezzin tries to outdo the others, so it becomes a beautiful endless wave of song, rolling across the city like thunder. The residents seem used to this. The first time I visited Istanbul, I was so touched by it that I had to sit down.

I pop into existence around the corner from the Grand Bazaar. It's dinner time, but there are still humans rushing about at this hour, and most of their eyes slide right off of me, except for a little girl clutching her father's hand. Her face crumples like tissue paper. Pure terror.

I smile and whisper, "You don't see me, my dear." Her face relaxes, and she looks confused long enough for me to vanish into the crowd heading indoors.

The Grand Bazaar is an enormous building with domed ceilings of cracked white plaster. It's very old, by human standards. (By mine, it was breakfast time.) Hundreds of vendors sell their wares from little holes in the walls: jewelry, bookstands, spices, silver coffee sets, bolts of cloth, food. So much food. Pecans, dried fruits, spicy sausages called _sucuk_ , blocks of salty white cheese called  _beyaz peynir_. Many vendors sell the same things, so who you patronise depends on how much you want to spend. Prices in Istanbul are always negotiable, which might seem odd to Americans.

We're not far from the Bosphorus, so the air filtering through the doors is slightly chill. With my fair features and white-blond hair, I know I stick out of the crowd. All the same, I bounce around from vendor to vendor, inspecting everything with a bored look on my face.

The gentleman at one stall finally notices me as I pass. "Hello, hello," he calls in passable English. "Delicious Turkish Delight today, sir. Very good. Please, try some." I smile lightly as I step inside. Turkish Delight comes in more varieties than New Yorkers have ice cream flavours. This gentleman has an entire wall of Turkish Delight: in logs, in balls, in squares. Purple, white, pink, red, brown. With clotted cream, with walnuts, with pistachios, with rose water, with mint, with orange. The man cuts me a piece of something that tastes faintly of cherries.

It's pretty good, but I keep a neutral face. "Hmm. How much?"

"Usually I sell a box for thirty lira. But for you, sir, I give twenty-five."

I cock my head and let my eyes slide over the shelves, seeking. "Thank you very much, I'll think on it." I nod politely and begin to leave.

The man darts after me. "Twenty. You want this for yourself, sir? Maybe to give to someone? I can do twenty."

"Yes, it's for a lady friend of mine."

"Ah, you are a man in love. I am happy for you, sir, and want to see your lady happy, too. Eighteen. It's as low as I can go, or my boss will be unhappy with me. Eighteen, and I will give you  _baklava_ , too. Very fresh."

I smile again and just say, "Thank you, I'll think about it." I can taste the man's frustration in my mouth as I leave. In truth, the Turkish Delight was so-so and from the beginning, I had no intent to buy it. But nettling him was amusing. We have to take our pleasure where we can.

I do this with half a dozen vendors in the Grand Bazaar that evening, successfully frustrating all of them. One man actually mutters under his breath, something about arrogant low-balling Europeans. We'd been speaking until that point in English, so he's horrified when I respond in pitch-perfect Turkish, "All my European friends will be sad to hear that's how you feel about your customers." As I leave, he chases me out of the store, begging me to come back.

By this time, it's coming on eight o'clock, and I haven't found anything. Tasted much, yes, but nothing that grabs my tongue. I've eaten the best  _lokum_  in my time - the kind that makes your eyes roll in your head, in a good way. I suppose I mustn't be hard on these vendors. It's nearly impossible to please the palate of someone who's immortal. We've seen and tasted too much.

If memory serves, there was a wonderful little lokum maker one of the last times I was in Istanbul, sometime in the 1790s. Haci Bekir was his name. I wonder if his lineage still lives on. I ask around and am pleasantly surprised to find that Haci Bekir has become a legend. It was he who introduced Turkish Delight to Europe at the dawn of the 19th century. In fact, waxes an enthusiastic hotel bellhop, the Haci Bekir company has several locations, from Istanbul to Riyadh - and wouldn't you know it, but there's one shop just down the street? They're open until nine o'clock.

I find the shop easily: it's a large place with a chocolate brown front and very helpful staff, and the Turkish Delight is just as mouthwatering as I remember: chewy, slightly fragrant, with a hint of powdered sugar and lemon. Perfection. The clerk wraps the Turkish Delight in paper and seals it in a silver-tinfoil box. The woman conversationally tells me that it will last a good while, to keep it at room temperature, and will I be taking it on an aeroplane? I tell her no.

* * *

That night, I check in on Sarah via the crystal under her sofa. It's a dangerous world out there, and I want to ensure she made it home. I hope that dog is a better guardian than she showed herself with me.

In any case, I spot Sarah puttering around the flat: making supper, vacuuming, talking on the phone with Toby. She laughs a lot with him, I notice, which makes me a little sad for her. She'll grieve him in the Underground. Still, she'll get over it soon enough. I'll make her happy.

* * *

The only dream I remember from that night is this: a white amorphous world, full of light and stars, which quickly rearranges itself into a wooded glen fed by a stream. I find Sarah dancing barefoot by herself in the grass while a unicorn grazes nearby. How quaint. I wouldn't think a hardened traveler such as my Sarah would still host such idyllic fantasies, but that's part of what I like about her.

I intentionally step on a twig to alert her to my presence, but Sarah looks unafraid as I approach. "Oh, it's you!" she exclaims. "Do you know this place?"

I squint at the surrounding trees. "I believe this is one of your own making, my lady. You design your own dreams, you know."

Sarah pauses. "Oh, this is a dream. Of course it is."

"May I have this dance?" I offer my gloved hand. I wear trousers and a jacket you'd find in my world, not hers. Gold thread lines the cuffs. Very flashy. She doesn't balk at my vestments, or my offer, merely smiles and takes my hand. We silently fall into an easy dance, alone in that quiet place. Despite the lack of music, we keep an even tempo and avoid treading on each other's feet. With a flourish, I materialise Sarah into a red ball gown, her hair dusted with diamonds - leagues away from the poofy dress of her childhood fantasies. Very adult and sensual; it suits her well. As a bonus, it reveals a stunning amount of cleavage.

Sarah responds with laughter and moves in to lean against my chest, and my heart flutters against my ribs like a caged bird.  _Stop that._  I peel my attention from my misbehaving heart and murmur into Sarah's hair, "Dearest?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"You can have this, you know. Make it real. You need only wish it."

"It's just a fantasy. It's not real."

I tip her chin upwards to look at me. "But it can be. Use your right words."

Heaven help me, she's even beautiful when she frowns. "... right words?"

"Yes." The world around us flutters. Sarah is waking up. I steal a moment to kiss her hand again. "Remember this. You need only wish it."

Sarah still looks confused and unhappy as the air melts, and all goes dark.

* * *

The next day, I have some goblins deliver the Turkish Delight while Sarah is out. She returns from errands to find the silver box gleaming on the kitchen table. I watch it all from my crystal, and I'm unsurprised when Sarah jumps at the discovery. But I  ** _am_  **surprised when she runs a finger over the box, flips it open, and doesn't eat anything. Have I progressed so little with her?

_There **was**  that whole peach fiasco._ I'd have thought she'd be over that by now.

Sarah leaves the Turkish Delight on the table and goes to bed, which leaves me feeling wounded. That night, we dance some more through her dreams, but she's easily distracted, and none of my gentle teasing appears to reach her.

* * *

A few days later, I go shopping in downtown Tokyo, in Ginza. I buy a box of  _kompeito_ , small coloured candies made of pure sugar, and sweet pink  _mochi_ , or rice cakes filled with red bean paste and wrapped in cherry blossom leaves. The former is hard and cracks wonderfully against the back teeth. The latter is chewy, and you have to work your jaw something fierce around it, but it forms a pleasurable sensation in the mouth and all the way down.

When this box appears on the kitchen table, Sarah doesn't even touch it right away. She's too distracted to heat up her can of Spaghettios, simply dumps it into a ceramic bowl and eats it cold while staring at the box the same way she did my crystal ball at the breakfast table. It doesn't inspire confidence in me. This time, I've included a small letter tucked into the box's wrappings. When she finally deigns to open the box, she spots the letter and unfolds it to read -  _Dear Sarah: Sweets for the sweet? It's safe food, I promise. I'm a horrid cook, so my hope is to win your heart through your stomach, and someone else's culinary skills. Best, Jareth._

She actually laughs aloud at that, which pleases me, but she still closes the box without touching any of its contents.

That night, Sarah surprises me by leading me on a merry chase on horseback through the dreaming. I don't know what we're chasing. Neither of us is armed. All the same, it's a fun, silly game. We take a brief break atop a hill overlooking a foreign valley I don't recognise. "Don't you want to dance?" I ask, puzzled.

Sarah chuckles at me and doesn't answer, merely whips her horse and is off again.

* * *

All things in fairy tales come in threes. The third gift makes Sarah pause the most. I thought it might, given how long she lived in France: it's a cream-coloured box stamped in gold foil and little pictures of fruits and flowers. A matching cream ribbon tops the whole affair in a neat bow. Sarah opens it to find a choice selection of  _macarons_  from Ladurée, a premier luxury confectioner. The little jewels of crispy meringue and chocolate come in a chorus of colours: lavender, eggshell, crimson, sapphire, jade. They're almost too beautiful to eat, but I've never met anyone who's been able to resist trying one. Any resident of Paris, past or present, would be familiar with Ladurée and its culinary creations.

Sarah skims her fingers over the thin paper that comes with each box that explains the different flavours. In the end, she still eats nothing, just folds up the paper and rewraps the box before placing it with my other unused gifts on the kitchen table.

I feel impotent.

That night, Sarah and I play chess, and I have to refrain from squirming in my seat. Every other woman I've ever seduced has been interested in the same things: pretty baubles and trinkets, gold for their necks and silk underthings for their bodies. I know the correct moves for that. I've never played chess with a paramour, certainly not on what modern mortals would refer to as a date, even if it's in a dream.

I would refuse to admit it aloud if you were to ask me, but I'm starting to feel uncertain and just a bit miserable.

* * *

I do have one dream that week that doesn't include Sarah. Just one. It involves an imaginary shadow I pull from the ether and mix with my own wishes, some glitter and spit. I mould its form with my fingers, teasing its limbs into shape with the palms of my hands, plying it until it becomes the spirit and image of her. When she's done, I breathe her to life - literally, with my own breath, ghosting my lips against hers - and her eyelids flutter open.

Her eyes don't look quite like Sarah's, and she doesn't smell right. She's obviously the shallow, lifeless byproduct of a dream. But otherwise she resembles Sarah quite convincingly right down to her laugh, and her flesh is warm, and she's very willing under my touch. We spend that dream frantically rutting against the desk in my study, and she cries out when I bite her shoulder as I pound into her. When we kiss it hurts, and when we need to breathe neither pulls back, just pants into each other's black-hole mouths. It's all slippery saliva and not very nice, but we can't help it, just cling to each other like two lonely people who crave the salvation the other provides.

* * *

One morning, seven days after my breakfast with Sarah, I check on the crystal in her flat and know immediately that something is wrong: the crystal remains dark. I tap it several times and try bouncing it off the wall next to my bed, but no dice. I don't think I've ever had a crystal break on me before. Frustrated, I end up crushing it beneath my heel. It cracks with a puff of glitter and vanishes on the wind.

That's when I hear it, quite clearly but far away:  _Goblin King, I need you._

Music to my ears. I slip sideways and, between one breath and the next, find myself standing in Sarah's living room. She wears an ivy green dress with lace stockings, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. I have no complaints. I'm wearing dark pants, a leather jacket with a wide collar, and boots with silver buckles. I think we make a nice match; very casual, very different, but cute.

I can't help my grin. "You rang?"

"Yes." Sarah doesn't smile. Instead she directs my attention to an overturned mixing bowl. "Care to explain that?"

_Dammit, this will not end well._  "Surely you can't expect me to tell you anything about your own cooking utensils."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb, you fairy bimbo. Look under the bowl." I do, and of course I see my own crystal staring back at me. No wonder I wasn't getting any reception. It wasn't broken; Sarah had covered it. "Care to explain?"

"A protective measure."

Sarah scoffs. "Oh, really?"

"How else am I supposed to know how you're doing?"

"Oh, so you're spying on me? Telephones are really beyond your ken, aren't they?"

"You won't be able to ring me if you're in trouble."

"Dammit, Goblin King, you're not my social secretary, or my bodyguard! I want this out of my house, now!"

She kicks the crystal at me. It bounces off the toe of my boot. I sigh and roll my eyes, but with a hand gesture from yours truly, the crystal bounces into my palm and winks out of existence. "Satisfied?" Sarah's glare could fell a Nazi at fifty paces. "Alright, I'm terribly sorry. I completely misjudged the situation, and I should have asked you first before assuming anything." I pull a very sorrowful but, hopefully, sincere expression. "Forgiven?"

Sarah chews her lip. "I've been thinking about your offer last week. Your little antic doesn't inspire the greatest confidence, Your Majesty." She rubs her temple and sighs. "... but I'd like to take you up on it."

"You-" I squint at her. Sarah looks utterly open and honest, even raw. Given the past week, I've figured she was going to shoot me down completely. That she would agree to accept my wish knocks me for a loop. My knee-jerk response is,  _Really?_  That doesn't sound quite so powerful and formidable, so I settle on, "Ah? And what have you decided on?"

Sarah hesitates. "First, some ground rules."

"But of course." I have to refrain from shivering.  _Here it comes._

"This is a wish freely earned as a result of my victory over you," Sarah says. "After this, neither of us owes the other anything."

"Granted."

"This wish has nothing to do whatsoever with my family or friends, so you'll leave them out of it."

"Certainly."

"There is no way you can use this wish to get me Underground, nor can you use any loopholes where I accidentally get stuck Underground by means other than yours and you refuse to help me get home. If I run into trouble, you have to help me get back Aboveground if I ask you to." Fucking hell, she's smarter than I thought. My tongue plants itself firmly in my jaw as if it's taken root. "Goblin King, I'm serious. Say it."

After a beat, I manage to pry my tongue free. "Naturally."

"Say that you promise, Your Majesty."

"I  ** _promise_**." It's practically a snarl, and with it, I say goodbye to my hopes of kidnapping. At this point, all I have left to hope for is Sarah's voluntary wishing herself below, which at this point sounds like a snowball's chance in hell. "Any other requests to cheat me of my fun? No? You're certain?" She shivers a little. I think we're both shivering. In any other circumstance, I would move to touch her, to reassure her, but now I don't. I can't. I've lost her already. "Alright, so tell me your wish."

_Wish for me. Please. Anything you want, if it's within my power, I will grant it. Wish for me and make both our wishes come true._

Sarah swallows. "I want to know the things that you know. I want wisdom."

The words bounce off my skull like quarters. At first, they don't even register in my brain. When they finally do, I'm left slack-jawed. What?

**_What?_ **

It takes a second before I realise I've shouted that last word aloud. Sarah takes it all in stride. "I want wisdom," she repeats herself, very firmly. "I want to leave this world wiser than I entered it. You've given me all these gifts this week, but I don't think you understand that the best one you gave me was the realisation that everything I've always imagined is real. There's a depth to the universe that most humans will never know. I want to know it. I want to understand why the universe is the way it is, and why I am the way I am. I'm so ignorant that I don't even know what I don't know. I want knowledge I can use to better myself and the world around me. My own mother based her entire existence on appearances, and she died never really knowing who she was or what she was capable of. I don't want that. I want a full life."

My hands have reached up to massage my temple.  _Anything, she could wish for anything, and she wishes for ..._  "There is really nothing or no one else you want?"

"No, Goblin King, there isn't." Her voice is very gentle, her gaze very soft. I understand in that moment that she's seen through me from the beginning. There's pity in her eyes. I can't stand it.

"I have seen your dreams since you were very young," my voice rasps. "You wanted ... you wanted a happy ending. Like in the fairy tales, with a prince. I thought you would give anything for that."

"I'd give a lot," Sarah admits, "but I wouldn't give  ** _anything_**. Other things matter way more to me now than they did at fifteen."

"Like what?" I demand.

"Seriously, Your Majesty?" She sounds amazed. "I've spent my entire life trapped by my mother's memory. If you think I'm going to give up my free will to another master, you're not only delusional, you clearly haven't been paying attention to a single thing I've said all week. You don't know me at all."

I'm sitting on the edge of her sofa, but I don't remember sitting. My gloved hands clasp my knees, and I can't help staring at them. When I look up at Sarah, the pity is still there in her eyes, and I suddenly realise that in addition to being able to read me like a book, she doesn't return my feelings. I'm a vestige of her youth, an old fantasy, a pretty adversary, nothing more. "Ah," I murmur in understanding. "So that's how it is."

"Yes," Sarah says softly, "that's how it is."

"Well, then." I produce a crystal with a half-hearted flick of the wrist. Better to get this farce over with so I can go home to bed - alone. "Say your right words, the goblins said ..."

"I wish for the Goblin King to grant me wisdom so that I may fulfill my potential and change the world in a positive way," she whispers. The crystal flickers brightly in my hand, then curls in on itself and vanishes with a wisp of white smoke. Sarah blinks. "Does that mean it worked?"

"Yes," I sigh wearily. "Though who knows what form the wish will take, or when. Magick is very fickle and follows its own rules." Sarah looks nervous, and although she's just dashed my hopes and defeated me  ** _again_** , I'm overcome with a sudden urge to envelope her in my arms and soothe her. If you'd asked me even a fortnight ago, I would have liked to see Sarah unsteady and struggling. Now, oddly enough, I want to see her succeed. "I wouldn't worry about it, Sarah. You made a very positive wish, and you were rather specific. I'm sure it will spin itself out fine."

Sarah shakily laughs. "Thank you, sir."

Strange. I have the paradoxical realisation that Sarah has impressed me even as she rejected me again. She's made it clear that I'm not the sun of her universe, that her primary concern is herself. I'm left with a mad urge to dazzle this woman, somehow convince her that I'm worthy of her, even though I know it's impossible. She doesn't love me, and I'm rapidly losing the battle with myself insisting that I'm merely in lust.

I don't know how Sarah's pulled another fast one on me, but she has.

* * *

_To be continued._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is part of a verse in Matthews 6:13: "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
> 
> Haci Bekir and Ladurée are real confectioners, and they ship internationally. Jareth is a prat - any Turkish Delight you buy in Istanbul is bound to be wonderful. Just remember to bargain ;) Also, Ladurée's macarons really are that beautiful; they show up in the 2006 Kirsten Dunst vehicle, Marie Antoinette.
> 
> Please review; I find feedback very helpful. Also, I know I was uncertain in the beginning, but I now know that this is going to be a very long story.


	7. We're all mad here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever the Goblin King is motionless, his face resembles a porcelain mask - something cold forged by the union of earth and fire, solidified into a hard outer shell. His flesh is a little too white to pass for a human, as if he were carved from a length of bone.

_The virtue of soul [...] is knowledge; for one who knows is good and reverent and already divine._

-The Corpus Hermeticum, by Hermes Trismegistus (translated by Brian P. Copenhaver)

* * *

_All knowledge hurts._

-Cassandra Clare

* * *

Whenever the Goblin King is motionless, his face resembles a porcelain mask - something cold forged by the union of earth and fire, solidified into a hard outer shell. His flesh is a little too white to pass for a human, as if he were carved from a length of bone. I see the most warmth in his mismatched eyes, like pinpricks of flame, and the slightest indent that forms in his brow whenever he frowns, as if someone's pressed their thumb into wet clay. His mouth's too big for his face, and his thin lips don't do a good job of hiding his teeth. Even when he's in a good mood, I feel like I'm facing a shark.

He didn't look convincingly human at brunch last week, but now he's freakishly alien in the dim light of my apartment. I must have been half-asleep that first night not to notice. I wonder how he can walk down a street, even disguised, without frightening people.

Right now, though, the Goblin King looks very remote, sitting on the edge of my couch. Reimi slept on that couch and now the boogeyman's sitting on it. For a split second, my mind won't accept that: your adult life and your childhood nightmares are not supposed to intersect like a Venn diagram. In any case, the Goblin King's sitting there, but his hands are folded on his knees and he looks like he's very far away. Light years away. In another star system.

I clear my throat, and His Majesty blinks himself back into the room. "Thank you," I tell him. I try to smile when I say it.

A human would say, "For what?", or mirror my body language. The Goblin King's response is to cock his head at me like a bird, and a strange thought flashes past my brain:  _I wonder what his eyes have seen._ The fall of Rome? The rise of Egypt? The first organisms crawling out of the sea? The thought scares me a little.

The strange moment stretches uncomfortably. I don't think he notices. "... for the wish," I add.

Silence pops like a bubble. "Ah," the Goblin King says in sudden understanding. "You're welcome. Use in good health." Weird. I sense sincerity. When he first reappeared in my life, I figured it was to disembowel me; in mythology, stories end badly for humans who humiliate divine beings. But over breakfast last week, I picked up on the attraction, and I thought the Goblin King's aim was some sort of perverse sexual humiliation to punish me. Or maybe just kidnap me back to Fairyland to be a peasant toiling on his land? The guy stole my brother - I wouldn't put anything past him.

And yet, His Majesty doesn't bear a resemblance to the asshole frat boys who were always looking for another conquest. He doesn't look arrogant or aggressive or angry, but adrift. Hmm, maybe not perverse sexual humiliation, after all. That actually makes me more uneasy. I'm in new territory here. In any case, I feel bad for the Goblin King, just a little, which is annoying. You shouldn't feel bad for adversaries.

His Majesty stands to go. I'm an afterthought to him at this point. I can understand that. Whatever his game, he didn't get what he wanted, and he has other fish to fry. "What will you do now?" I ask.

He looks thoughtful, as if his attention's already in another time zone. "I have a kingdom to attend to, and subjects to care for. My work is never done. Not really."

"Good luck. I guess I won't see you again."

He regards me curiously, and I don't have a clue what he's thinking. "You think so? You just wished to know the things I know. If even a modicum of that wish comes true, that would make us colleagues, wouldn't it?"

I hadn't considered that. I'm already starting to doubt the wisdom of taking wishes from the Goblin King.  _Haha, Williams, that's why you need wisdom! Maybe you'll stop making dumb decisions._

"My final version of the wish wasn't to become your colleague," I say stubbornly. "I just want knowledge."

"But that's not what you wished for." I don't like it when the Goblin King smiles, I've decided; it usually means bad news for me.

"Yes, it was."

"No, you wished for wisdom."

"What's the difference?"

"Wisdom is knowledge applied."

I mull that over. "That doesn't make sense."

"Of course not. You haven't had an experience yet."

That stings, just a little. "I've had  ** _plenty_  **of experiences-"

"Obviously not the right ones."

I open my mouth to retort, then close it when I realize I have no reply to that. He nods, solemn but satisfied. "Let's call that lesson one. That wasn't too painful, was it?" I'm starting to actively dislike him. My annoyance must show in my face, because His Majesty beams. "There will come a time when you will regret this wish, dear Sarah. And no," he adds, "that isn't a threat, merely the truth."

"You don't know anything about me."

"After what happened tonight? No, evidently I don't." His agreement surprises me. I kind of was expecting another argument. "But I have worked with your race for a long time. Each of you thinks you're unique, yet your psyches are the same. You yearn for the truth, not understanding the pain that requires. No, I think you will come to regret this wish, no matter how good it is. There will be a day when you wish you had asked for something more pleasurable than painful."

I shrug with more nonchalance than I feel. "I don't think ignorance is bliss."

"That's because you're very young." I almost start yelling - I mean, c'mon, I'm twenty-seven for Christ's sake! - but the Goblin King just keeps talking. "Did no one ever tell you the tale of the fool, and what happened when he stepped off the cliff?"

_What the hell._  He looks as if he's enjoying a private joke at my expense. I don't know what to say except, "Uh, no. What happened to him?"

"He flew."

I must look completely lost, because he laughs - actually laughs at me, the same cold, mocking laughter that scared me as a youth and is raising all the hair on my arms now - and vanishes between one breath and the next. What a nut job.

* * *

That night I dream of distant stars, and black holes big enough to swallow entire galaxies. I want to destroy these black holes, save the worlds they threaten, but something yanks me back from even looking at them.  _These sorts of things snare you through the eyes_ , a voice whispers in my ear. I don't have a body in this place, or an ear to hear, yet I do. I'm not even sure who the voice is, just know it comes from outside myself. It might be the Goblin King, but I couldn't tell you for sure. In the few interactions with him that I remember, His Majesty possesses a powerful maleness that overwhelms a room. This voice feels sexless and ageless, as if it's always been and always will be.

Suddenly, I'm no longer among the stars but standing, in a physical body, in a sepia-toned world. The Labyrinth. It's not the Labyrinth of my youth, however; I can run through this place yelling, and the stone immediately leaps around me as I move, rearranging itself at my bidding. I can recreate the world around me with a thought. The adrenaline rush is intense.

There's no sign of His Nibs. I don't know whether that's good or not. Personally, I feel more at ease when he's around. Better the devil you see than the devil you don't.

* * *

I wake up again to the feel of warm sunlight on my face. My clock informs me that, like every other night this week, I've slept eight hours again. It's looking like the insomnia is really gone. Awesome.

Last night, I beat the Goblin King again - at whatever his game was this time - and got my wish.  ** _Awesome._**  Maybe I'll flunk out of grad school, but at this point, I'm ambivalent about that. Life is actually looking up.

I roll over in bed ... right into the face of a creature with staring bulbous eyes. I leap halfway across the room as if hurled from a slingshot, flailing and screaming. Not to be outdone, the creature does a back-flip onto my nightstand and starts screaming, too. Startled, a dozen frightened little bodies leap out of the shadows around my bedroom and join in.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!" I scream, first at the thing on my nightstand, then at the herd of things at my feet.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!" the thing on my nightstand screams, first at me, then at its screaming friends.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!" screams the motley crew of creatures clustered around my bed and hanging from my dresser. I think they're all screaming at each other now.

From the living room, Boudica howls and hurls her body into the door, desperate to barge in and save me from whatever's making me scream. All of the ugly creatures freeze ... but only for a second. Then they start screaming again, this time with much more arm flailing and histrionics.

" _ **STOP IT!**_ " I roar.

To my surprise, it works. As if I've pushed a button, they stop wailing and writhing, and I realize they weren't that scared to begin with. There are seven creatures altogether. It takes me a long time to count them all, I think because my left eye is throbbing in my head, and my hands twitch in a way I've only felt when struck by a powerful urge to strangle a particularly awful babysitting charge.

The creatures stare back at me from their hiding places around the room. One of them hangs from the curtain around my bed; another has made a nest of my underwear drawer. They're small creatures, neither animal nor human, with big feet and knobbly hands, wearing a mishmash of clothes and armor. One wears a blue-striped sock for a hat. Another wears a helmet with holes for a pair of curly horns. All carry an assortment of weapons at their belts, though one is armed with a rubber chicken. Some have snouts, others have vaguely human features, and one has a nose that would put Pinocchio's to shame. Most are missing teeth. One has a peg leg.

Their rough skin resembles tired leather, and they're hideously ugly, but their eyes boast a bright, shining intelligence that gives me pause.

"Let me guess." I sound surprisingly calm to my own ears, if a little too dry. "I've already met the Goblin King, so you must be his goblins."

The creature hanging from the curtain whistles enthusiastically. The rest laugh and stamp their feet. Amazingly, they fall silent when I raise my hands. " _ **Please**  _keep it down. You'll disturb the neighbors, and you're giving me a headache, after nearly giving me a heart attack."

"Aww," they murmur.

"We wasn't tryin' nothin'," says the goblin with the curly horns.

"You just saw us this time," says the goblin with the blue-striped sock. Its colleague hiss reproachfully, and one cuffs it across the head. The offending goblin cradles its head, bowing low. "I means, what I  ** _means_  **is, Your  _ **Majesty**  _just saw us this time. Meanin' no imputativeness, ma'am."

"Imputativeness means isolation," explains the goblin with the peg leg, trying to be helpful.

"I think you mean impudence and insolence," I say faintly, not really following the conversation. Goblins aren't exactly the most eloquent speakers. It's also no wonder that I originally mistook their number for twice as many; by their very nature, goblins are such destructive whirlwinds of energy that there always seems to be more of them.

"That, too, ma'am."

I rub my forehead. "What's this about Jareth seeing you?"

At my question, all of the goblins titter nervously. "She said his name!" giggles one, almost hysterically.

" ** _She's_  **allowed, ain't she?"

The goblin with the blue-striped sock straightens up at me. "Not  ** _His_  **Majesty. We says  ** _Your_  **Majesty, is what we says."

It feels like a gorilla has parked itself on my chest. "I'm not a majestic anything."

The goblins regard each other, confused, unsure how to proceed. The creature in my underwear drawer finally murmurs, "We don't like sayin' contrary-wise, Your Majesty, but ... you're a Majesty."

"I'm not a queen!" I yell, and all the goblins cower.

"She yells like His Majesty," the peg leg goblin says in a stage-whisper to the goblin at its side.

"Nah, His Majesty yells louder. And she doesn't throw things," replies its neighbor in a tone indicating that this is a Very Good Thing. And in fact, the goblins look up at me with something approaching reverence and even admiration.

"Your Majesty saw us all the time when you was littler, almost our size."

"Same time as you saw the faeries."

"Nasty, bitey things, faeries, and they don't know nothin' useful."

"Like digging."

"Or stealing babies."

"Or shapin' metal stabby things."

"Or dancing."

"His Majesty's real good at dancing."

A chorus of nervous giggles again. I sit down hard on my bed, my hands curled uselessly in my lap. The goblin with the blue-striped sock clambers up to sit next to me and pats my hand like a concerned schoolmarm. "Is a lot," it coos. "Yup. Your Majesty thinks you're crazy. Lots of big people think they're crazy, if they see us. They forget themselves, and us. We never left, though, we was always here. We brought letter from king."

"And good luck," chirps another goblin. "Whenever you was questing, we brought luck for Your Majesty."

I think back on all the times I found exactly what I needed, no matter where I went ... like the time I somehow landed an apartment in Tokyo without a job or legal papers. "How is that possible? You can't just give someone luck. Luck isn't a commodity you can give someone."

"What's a common oddity?" stage whispers the goblin with the peg leg again.

"She sure talks big words like His Majesty," grumbles the goblin with the curly horns.

I twitch. "I mean, you can't just hand someone luck like you would a chicken, right?"

"Sure can!"

"Or you trip somebody. Or hide keys. Or lock them out."

"Then no con peter."

"That means omnipotent," explains the goblin with the peg leg.

"You mean competitor and opponent," I reply.

"We means what we means."

"We got many ways to make luck."

"Some nicer than others."

A goblin with a patch over its eye makes an exaggerated motion of slitting its neighbor's throat. The second goblin gurgles and pantomimes crashing to the floor. One Eye stands over its slain brother and puffs out its chest. Now I understand the Goblin King's mercurial moods. If I had to babysit goblins all day, I'd be grumpy, too.  _You're feeling empathy for him again. Stop it, Williams._

" ** _Okay_** ," I say, then again, a little softer, "Okay. So ... you're goblins-"

"We're ** _Your Majesty's_**  goblins," interrupts the goblin with the blue-striped sock, "... ma'am." All the goblins give a sloppy bow.

This is getting creepy. "That's very kind of you, but I don't need my own goblins."

Goblins have the emotional range of a dog. It's very easy to tell what they're feeling. At the moment, all of their faces have fallen as if I've just announced Christmas has been cancelled. "But of course you needs goblins. Your Majesty is the Goblin Queen."

"I'm  _ **not**_ -"  _Breathe._  "If I were the Goblin Queen, I think I'd know it. I'd have a crown and live in the Labyrinth, and I don't, do I? I'm a student and I live in New Jersey."

The goblins look at each other, then back at me. "His Majesty doesn't got a crown, and he lives everywhere. Ma'am."

I lean in, eyes narrowed. "Kings and queens are married, aren't they? And the Goblin King and I are definitely not married."

"Who says kings and queens have to  ** _marry?_** " says the one-eyed goblin.

"Maybe human kings and queens, maybe," growls the goblin with the peg leg.

"Kings and queens take care of the kingdom."

"That's their job, is what it is."

"And they make the forests grow."

"And keep out the bad things."

"And steal babies!" shrieks the goblin in my underwear drawer, losing its head completely. All the goblins cheer like it's halftime at the Superbowl. Someone throws the rubber chicken, which bounces off the bedside lamp and nearly topples it. Boudica howls again from behind my door. The goblins quiver and fall quiet, whispering feverishly to each other.

"I don't steal babies!" I shout. "And I don't make forests grow, or any of those other things you talk about."

"Not yet," says a goblin. It says this not in a mean or mischievous way. The comment might as well be on the inevitability of the weather.

I choose to ignore this. "And I don't understand that comment about kings and queens not having to marry, but I'm not going to live in sin with His Nibs, either."

"Why would Her Majesty want to live in a bin?" grumbles the goblin with the peg leg.

"You'd get to live in a castle," says the goblin with the curly horns. "It's very big but very cold."

"Bring socks," says the goblin wearing a striped sock for a hat, helpfully.

"I don't like the Labyrinth," I reply, drawing a gasp from all the goblins. "And I don't like your king." The goblins gasp louder. "And I'm pretty sure a government requires the heads of state liking the job and liking each other."

"But it don't," says the one-eyed goblin in a very reasonable tone. "A world needs a king and a queen to run it."

"Some worlds got many of 'em!"

"You make everything go."

"Don't you remember your dreams?"

At some point, I'd stood up to pace the room, but this last comment makes me sit back down again on the bed, a little harder than intended. Yes, I'm starting to remember my dreams. The one I had this morning ... just running through the Labyrinth, which molded itself around me according to my will. There didn't seem to be a purpose to this, and none of it had to do with the Goblin King.

The goblins smile triumphantly up at me. "She remembers!" the goblin with the curly horns shouts gleefully.

I'm fifteen-years old again, facing down a glittering adversary atop a crumbling world, and the Goblin King recoils as I advance, step by step.  _For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great ..._

_I haven't slept much either._

_Oh, how long?_

_Since fifteen, I think. About the time I ... I defeated you._

_I suppose you don't understand the enormity of defeating a god in his own realm?_

I was a stupid kid. I wished away my brother, and accepted a god's challenge, and named myself his equal. Yesterday, I asked to know the things I don't know, and now I've gotten the truth: when I was very young, with no clue what I was doing, I appointed myself co-ruler of an alien world, with all the powers thereof. The goblins murmur in alarm as I bury my face in my hands.

"Is she crying?"

"Oh, ma'am, please don't cry!"

"I think she's laughing."

I'm doing a bit of both. The Goblin King may well be a nut job, but I accepted his wish and have unwittingly spent the last decade helping him rebuild his kingdom, so what does that say about me?

* * *

Introducing Boudica to the goblins is a nightmare. She immediately lunges for the goblin with the peg leg and tries to rip off the other limb, and the goblin responds by squealing and punching her in the nose. I have to separate them and receive a bite on my arm for the trouble. Everyone gets a time-out: Boudica in her crate, the goblins sitting in the corner of my living room, looking like remorseful children.

_I can't do this._  I put Neosporin on my arm and make coffee.  _I don't want this responsibility._

_There will come a time when you will regret this wish, dear Sarah._

I'm regretting it already.

The goblins leave us alone when I take Boudica on her walk. But later, as I leave for the grocery store, they crowd around the door, determined to come with me. I order them to stay home, which works ... for a while. Later in the day, having burrowed myself into a library cubicle to do research, I spot a shadow ducking behind a shelf. It's too small to be a child's. When I return home, power has gone out in the building, and I have to navigate the staircase in the dark.

The weekend drags. Living with goblins is like waiting for a nuclear bomb to go off - for the goblins are most definitely living with me now. I guess they have for many years. I'm just able to see them now, which excites them and makes them more prone to mayhem. It's nice payback at someone who's cultivated an adult life with as little responsibility to others as possible.

Boudica has long had a habit of growling for no reason. I've only had her a year, and I always figured she heard something in a neighbor's apartment that I, with my human ears, simply couldn't. Now I think she's been reacting to goblins sneaking, invisible, around my home. She terrifies the goblins, who keep close to me, and this in turn infuriates Boudica, who isn't used to sharing me.

The same day I awaken to goblins in my bedroom, I lay down the ground rules.  _No touching things that aren't yours. No stealing anything, especially babies. Respect the dog._ The goblins consider these more like guidelines than actual rules, though it does cut down on the small explosions around the apartment. My neighbors are going to hate me now, I can tell.

Then comes Monday.

* * *

The goblins aren't around when I leave for school. I guess they're off doing goblin things. I worriedly make a mental tally of which neighbors have small children so I can check in on them later.

The call from Janice Li comes after lunch. I've come to dread her voice. "I'm sorry, Ms. Williams," she says in her brisk, no-nonsense tone when I answer the phone. "I promise I'll make this quick. I wanted to give you a status on your mother's will."

This again. I'm standing in an empty classroom, so I sit down. I usually need to sit for these calls. "Okay, hit me."

Janice hesitates, and my stomach drops into my shoes. "Accountants have thoroughly investigated your mother's estate. I don't know how aware you were of your mother's finances, but she was heavily in debt when she died."

"How much debt are we talking here?"

"In the vicinity of $475 million."

I'm glad I'm already sitting down, or else I'd fall down. In the end, after a fair amount of stuttering, all I say is, "Wow."

"Her estate is only worth about $400 million. I'm sure you can see the problem."

"I'm not responsible for paying this off, am I?"

"Oh, no, no. Absolutely not. What I am saying, Ms. Williams, is that your mother's debts must be paid before your inheritance can be disbursed. Right now, it ... it's probable that you will not receive anything, by the time this is through." I burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Ms. Williams, I know this must be a terrible disappointment-"

"No! Hardly." I'm wiping tears from my eyes, smiling. "It's just ... how well did you know my mother, Ms. Li?"

Janice hesitates again. I'm sensing a war between honesty and professionalism. "Your mother and I spoke a few times, in person and over the phone. It was purely a business relationship." Professionalism has won out.

"Well, I'll speak frankly about my mother, then. This sort of irresponsibility was pretty commonplace. I'm not surprised." Nor am I unhappy. I was truthful when I said I didn't want Mom's money, name or memory. Mom poisoned everything she touched.

"I'm truly sorry to hear that, Ms. Williams. I know this has been a difficult time for you."

The lump makes a startling return to my throat for the first time in at least a week. I have to speak around it, unsure why I'm feeling emotional all of a sudden. "Yeah, thank you, it has. I'll be okay. Ms. Li," I add suddenly, "did my mother know how bad her debt was? Or was she in such an alcoholic stupor at the end of her life that she was clueless about everything going on?"

"I spoke with her accountants this morning. Apparently, they'd been urging her to declare bankruptcy for at least two years prior to her death."

My stomach turns to ice. "So she knew. She knew for a while."

"Yes."

"And she still included me in her will, knowing that I'd get nothing."

"Yes."

"That's a pretty strong _fuck you_ , isn't it?"

"... I'm sorry, Ms. Williams."

I laugh again, but it's hollow. My bones feel hollow. "Thank you, Ms. Li. I think I'll go now."

* * *

Since childhood, I've always surmised that surprises, nasty and sweet alike, were supposed to happen on Fridays. The finality of the week seemed particularly fitting for such things. When a door closes, a window opens elsewhere. "Them's the rules," as the dwarf would say. I think his name was Hedgewart. I've been dreaming about him, these last few nights.

But I lose my job on a Wednesday, and it doesn't end with a bang but with the tired farting sound you expect from half-deflated birthday balloons. In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. A secretary pulls me from the Psychology department's computer lab and says I'm wanted on the third floor. That's where Judy's office is, so I immediately make a beeline for it. As I exit the staircase, I hear people arguing down the hall and think,  _Jesus, I hope that's not coming from Judy's._

Of course it is.

As I approach the door, my back straightens with pride and grim determination.  _To hell with wilting._  I pretend I'm a knight riding to war. I'm walking to my mount and the king is going to give me his blessing before I ride into battle. The image helps a little.

The voices hush as I knock, and Judy tells me to come in. I open the door to find the usual mess, with stacks of books rising from the floor like stalagmites. I see Dr. Lefferts, reclined scowling against a wall, arms crossed, wearing a forest green suit. They must have pulled her from a business meeting with someone from outside of campus. Barbara never wears suits. Judy sits at her desk looking as if she wants the floor to swallow her whole.

A man stands next to Judy's desk with all the stiffness of a coil waiting to be sprung. I recognize him instantly from the school catalog: Dr. Chatburn, a dean of the college and head of the Psychology program. He's taller than an Ent and, like many men his age, carries extra weight in his stomach. He looks like he's in desperate need of a cigarette.

"Sarah," he says in greeting. It's not a warm greeting. "Sit."

"We'd like to discuss a situation with you, Sarah," Judy says, much more kindly. She shoots Dr. Chatburn a warning look, which he ignores.

"I'll stand, thanks," I reply shortly. Barbara and Dr. Chatburn have made no move to sit. Like hell I'm going to allow myself to be yelled at by a bunch of standing older people, like I'm a disobedient child. If they're going to yell, I'm going to be standing, too.

"Did you curse out a classroom of undergraduates?" Dr. Chatburn demands.

The earth shifts beneath my feet. "Excuse me?"

"I should be allowed to handle this with my own TA," Barbara says heatedly.

"It's gone far beyond your classroom, Barbara," Dr. Chatburn practically spits. He whirls on me. "Well, did you?" In the corner of my eye, unseen by everyone else, a furry head ducks behind the window blinds. I keep my gaze steady.

"No," I respond testily. "And I'd like to know what's going on, please."

"We've received a complaint from the father of Michael Bauer, one of your students, saying that you cursed him out and humiliated him in class. Is that true?"

_Do. Not. Laugh._ It's a very near thing. "If this is in reference to a scolding I gave the other week, Dr. Chatburn, it was in response to disruptive and disrespectful behavior that I don't expect of a grown man in a professional setting. And frankly, I don't understand why an adult is running to his father about this."

" ** _Thaddeus Bauer_**  is one of the biggest donors to this university," Dr. Chatburn replies in righteous indignation, "and your little stunt has pissed him off something fierce. I've just received instruction from the President to deal with this, and with you. We're pulling you from the classroom."

"What?!" I yell.

Judy leaps up from her desk. "Stephen, this is going too far! You haven't even heard her side."

"This is ridiculous," Barbara asserts. "I've dealt with the Bauer boy before, and he shows a complete lack of respect for-"

Dr. Chatburn cuts both women off. "It doesn't matter. It's already been decided by the President's office that this is not the sort of publicity this university wants or needs. Sarah has got to go."

"Ms. Williams."

The man turns to stare at me. "What was that?"

"My name is Ms. Williams." Mine is not a cruel voice, but it could cut steel. "We've just met today, and you never even introduced yourself. Don't use my first name."

Dr. Chatburn's face flames red. "Of all the ... turn in your building pass."

All professors and teaching assistants carry key cards, which are different from student fobs. Our passes grant us access to faculty rooms across campus at all hours of the day and night. I unclip mine from my slacks and hold it up, but I don't give it to him. I explicitly turn away from Dr. Chatburn and hand my pass to Barbara. She looks terribly solemn. "I'm sorry, Sarah."

"Thank you, Barbara." I nod at my adviser. "Judy."

"I'll walk you out," Judy insists. Dr. Chatburn is still fuming as we leave the office.

The goblins escort us out of the building. Along the way, they upend one mail cart, overflow the toilets in the restrooms on two floors and, as we exit the elevator into the lobby, blow out the electricity in the entire building. As we walk past the security desk, the scene is the picture of organized chaos: people fumbling for flashlights and walkie-talkies, people bumping into each other, people tripping over the goblins that race underfoot.

I purposefully turn an about-face at the door and extend my hand. "Thank you, Judy," I say with the dignity usually reserved for heads of state. "I'm sorry it didn't work out, but I want to thank you anyway."

Judy searches my face and must see the sincerity there, because she quirks a little smile that finally reaches her eyes, and she shakes my hand. "Likewise, Sarah. We're going to resolve this, I swear it."

"Honestly? It doesn't matter to me now. You were right the other week. I don't want to be here, and today only confirms what I've been feeling for a long time. I'm dropping the program."

Her grip falters. "I'm sorry it happened under these conditions, Sarah. I'll be bringing this situation to the attention of the board, in any case. This was handled extremely poorly and should have been overseen by a tribunal, not a royal decree handed down in an office."

"Thanks, Judy. I appreciate that."

"Take care of yourself, Sarah." She flinches as the sprinklers flare to life overhead. Everyone in the lobby shrieks and runs for cover, vainly trying to shield laptops and papers with their bodies.

I don't flinch. I'm afraid I'm getting used to these sorts of things.

* * *

The late spring warmth bakes the wet out of my clothes as I walk home, but I have an inkling my shirt's going to need dry-cleaning. The electricity in my apartment building has gone out again, so I make the climb in heels. I'm prepared this time, and pull a flashlight from my backpack as I begin my ascent. I'm too busy flagellating myself to notice the burning in my legs.  _You shouldn't have taken it so quietly. You should have handed it back to Chatburn, told him he's allowing a privileged environment where rude behavior and sexism are tolerated so long as a student's family buys off the university. Who does he think he is, to talk to you that way?_

The French have a phrase for this: _L'esprit d'escalier_. Staircase wit. It's when the perfect retort comes to you too late, and you wish you could reverse time and -  ** _no_** , no, never mind, I don't wish for that, or anything else. As the flashlight's beam roams the walls, I hear the pitter-patter of little feet swarm up the stairs with me. Anyone else would think it's children, but I know better.

Walking into the apartment, I dump my bag into a chair and stand motionless just inside the doorway. The goblins spill around me and dash inside, giggling and poking each other with forks they've stolen earlier from the kitchen drawers. One goblin knocks over a lamp; a second goblin catches it, lovingly rights it on the table, and cuffs its friend on the head. "Watch where you're going, will ya?" It looks up at me with large, pale eyes. "Is Your Majesty sad?"

To my surprise, and the surprise of all the goblins, I sweep the little creature up into my arms and kiss it on the nose. "No. No, I'm very happy. I'm free, I think."

I look at my feet to find all the goblins clambered around me, as if they're weeds suddenly sprouted from the earth. Each looks desperately hopeful.

A light bulb goes off in my head. "His Majesty never shows you guys any affection, does he?"

They shake their heads.

"Would you like candy?" I ask. Before I've even finished speaking, the goblins scramble for the kitchen, where I pull down a canister from the top shelf. They've already learned from experience that they won't get anything if they fight, so they keep their elbows and jibes to themselves, but they betray their excitement by hopping up and down like hungry birds. I give a toffee or Jolly Rancher to each of them (I count nine goblins today), and they run giggling to their hiding places.

I'll give this much for goblins: when they want to make themselves scarce, they're good at it. They vanish into the shadows of the room like raindrops rejoining a pool of water. Seeing this shakes me down to my toes. It's a strange thing to witness something defy the laws of physics. For a split second, your world has split open. It's a little frightening, like temporary insanity.

A knock at the door distracts me from my thoughts. Perfect timing. It's Reimi, holding a grocery bag. She lives around the corner and often stops by after work, and she recoils now at the sight of me. "Jesus, Sarah, what happened to you? You fall in a puddle?"

I'm suddenly very tired and crave a bath. "Sprinklers went off at the Psych building. What's up?"

Reimi looks awkward. "I wanted to see how you were doing and ... um, I stopped at Shoprite on the way home to grab dinner, and I bought a newspaper. I think ... I think you should see it."

Dread buzzes in my ear like an evil black fly. "What is it?"

She pulls a paper from the grocery bag and says in a resigned little voice, "See for yourself."

It is not, strictly speaking, a newspaper. The Daily Tattler is a national supermarket rag that barely earns the right to call itself yellow journalism. The front page makes my heart stick in my throat:  _Linda Young's Hidden Love Child._  The subheading reads:  _Estranged daughter shows up for mother's funeral, demands recognition._ _  
_

"Oh, my God!" I gasp. "Oh, Jesus Christ. No."

"Page 3," Reimi says miserably.

I yank the paper open and stare in horror at photo after photo of my family in full glossy print, dressed in our Sunday best and paying our respects at Mom's funeral. Although my parents and Toby show up in the shots, it's clear that the paparazzi have zeroed in on me. There I am, sitting anxiously as Father Di Alberto gives his speech. Gazing up at the trees. Talking to The Famous Director.

My cell rings. When I snatch up my phone with shaking hands, I see it's an unlisted number. Journalists. Journalists are calling me. No.  ** _No._**

"They just published it today," Reimi continues. "The New York Times is reporting the lag time of a week to publish the photos is because all the tabloids were in a prolonged bidding war."

"The New York Times has published my name?"

Reimi nods. "This morning. They're more accurate and less inflammatory than the Tattler, just a short piece saying that Linda Young has a surviving daughter at Rutgers. Nothing about your history together. Very professional."

"But they published my  ** _name?_** "

Reimi hesitates. "Yes."

I crumple my hands against my forehead. "Damn. Dammit, this isn't ... I've busted my ass for years to protect my privacy, and now this. How?  ** _How?_** "

"I don't know, Sarah."

My cell rings again. We stare at each other. I don't even move to answer it.

"... but you're going to have to come up with an action plan if you don't want paparazzi stalking you on campus," she finishes lamely.

I bark a laugh. "Well, that won't happen. I got fired from my TA job today and dropped the program. I'm no longer a student."

"What?" Reimi cries.

I wave a hand, too tired to explain. "Long story. But I need to focus now on finding a job. I don't have time for distractions."

Reimi sucks her lower lip. "I might have an opening at my office. My boss is looking for a copy editor. Think you'd be interested? It's probably in line with the work you were doing at the university. The pay's not great, but my boss is awesome. You'd like her."

For a second - a split second - the answer becomes so clear to me. I'll get on a plane again. I'll go back to France, or Mongolia, or Turkey. I'll slip back into a crowd and vanish, beholden to nothing or no one. No one will know me or my name. It sounds so perfect. Uncertain, sure, but perfect. I've always been a wanderer. Maybe this is just a sign that I don't belong here.

"Sarah?"

I shake myself. "Yeah, sure, Reimi, thanks."

"You should call your folks," she says worriedly. "Journalists might be camping out on their lawn."

I hadn't thought of that. I put in a quick call to Dad, who doesn't pick up, so I call Toby. When he hears what happened, my little brother erupts. "The papers published your name? What asshole gave them your name?"

I feel like too little butter spread over too much bread. "I don't know, and I don't know what to do. Is everything okay at home?"

"Yeah, I'm hanging out with Josh. Mom and Dad are still at work. We haven't seen any journalists or gotten any weird phone calls. If they do, I'll throw them off."

"Thanks, Toby."

"Sarah? I love you. This is gonna pass, okay? It's just a bunch of crap and it's gonna pass."

Now I know why travel was so difficult; I missed Toby too much. "Thanks, little brother. I love you, too."

Just then, my doorbell starts to buzz ... and buzz ... and buzz. Reimi peeks between the curtains, down at the street, then turns back to me and shakes her head, grim. I cover my eyes.

* * *

Reimi sneaks out the back of the building and still runs into a horde of reporters who ask if she knows Linda Young's daughter. Reimi's responds, "No", along with strict orders to eat a dick, complete with the appropriate hand signals, thereby making it impossible for the journalists to use any footage of her. When she relates this story to me later over the phone, I laugh so hard that I scare both my dog and my goblins.

I go to bed with two goblins curled up at my feet. Boudica growls in displeasure at this but finally settles down to guard my bedroom door.

It's been over a week since the insomnia left. I think it's gone for good. Despite the terrible day, I feel strangely comfortable. I lost a job that I didn't like, and my lifelong secret is out, but I feel okay.  _There's great freedom in letting go of things,_ I decide as I slip into my dreams and far away.

* * *

The dream deposits me in a corridor of vines and ferns. I look down and curl my fingers, pleased to see I have a body in this place. A light glows faintly around the corner at the end of the hallway. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I follow it.

I turn the corner and find myself in a giant glass dome, surrounded by ranks of flowers. The moon stares down through the glass, pale and pearly and luminescent, more real and yet unreal than the moon in my world. It almost seems to shiver. I wander the rows of plants, fascinated by their foliage and bright, dewy petals. If I didn't know any better, I'd want to eat them.

When I find the Goblin King, he's working on a wall of red roses, their petals so dark that they appear black. He wears his usual tight pants that shouldn't be seen by young children, and a loose cotton shirt that's a little thinner than usual, revealing the strong outline of the muscles in his arms and back. His hair hangs loose and tousled, but instead of animal skulls, I see bits of twigs and leaves, as if he's been rolling around outside in the grass. He hums pleasantly to himself as he prunes the rosebushes with some wicked looking shears. His gloves are thick, with a wide brim to protect his wrists from the thorns. I stand there silently for a long time, watching him work lovingly on the flowers.

I've just decided to leave when the Goblin King stops humming and, without even a glance in my direction, murmurs, "There's a stool next to the tulips. Sit."

He says this so quietly that I almost don't hear him. I find the stool easily and take a seat. I wear regular street clothes and sneakers, but I cross my legs at the ankles as if I'm at a tea party.

His Majesty doesn't turn from his work. "Do you know what your strength is, Sarah Williams?"

My body locks up, suddenly on guard. "No. What?"

"You know how to move among wolves." He rips the rotted stem off another rose. "That is an admirable quality in a person, and treasured in a monarch."

"I'm not a queen, Jareth."

He looks at me over his shoulder then, and whatever I'm about to say next dies in my throat. The moonlight glances off his eyes and makes them glow like a feral cat's. "Even now you use my name and speak to me as an equal, as if you were unafraid. I must tell you, I find it delightfully refreshing from the usual prostrating I get from humans."

I have nothing to say to that.

He turns back to his roses. "I'm told you had a difficult day." I could almost think he's talking to himself, he speaks so softly. I'm five again, swinging my too-little legs from the too-high stool in my parent's kitchen. In my imagination, Mom would make chocolate milk and toast for me to take into the TV room to watch Sesame Street. She'd smile as she did it and ask about my day, and I'd tell her about Mrs. Pimm teaching us how to write our names. Mom would be excited for me. Of course, this is a complete fantasy. Dad did all those things.

My eyes narrow. "How did you hear about that?"

"My goblins couldn't keep a secret if their lives depended on it - and they usually do. They've related to me the oddest tale this week ... apparently, some of my goblins have gone to live with the Champion of my Labyrinth. Can you imagine?"

"You don't sound angry," I reply thoughtlessly.

"Should I be?" He snips more leaves.

"You tell me."

"I don't believe I should be, no. You won the right to many things from me. I can spare a few goblins, especially the more annoying ones. How do you find them so far?"

"They have poor impulse control and an unhealthy fascination with fire. I'm scared to leave them alone with my oven."

He chuckles. "Yes. It helps knowing how to deal with them. They work best with a firm hand and a dose of fear."

"Actually, they listened really well when I kissed them and gave them candy."

The Goblin King freezes, and finally he turns fully around to me. His shirt plunges nearly to the navel, revealing the taut muscles in his stomach. The familiar pendant gleams against his chest, looking sharp and fiery against the pale flesh, especially with the horns protruding from it. It's sharp and prickly, just like him. "You did what?"

I quirk a little smile despite myself. "You kiss babies, right? Goblins smell about the same, and they don't cry." The Goblin King looks revolted. Despite myself, I laugh. "You can't rule everybody through fear, Your Majesty."

"When I want direction on how to rule my kingdom, I'll be sure to ask," he says icily, returning to his flowers.

_Ah, shit._  This is going to be a trying relationship if the guy can't even handle constructive criticism. Should I ignore this? Apologize? Before I can decide, he pulls the heavy gloves off and flips one hand up as if wordlessly asking a question, but instead he says, "I'll have need of you for a moment." And because I see no way out of this, I go stand anxiously at his side and try not to fidget as he puts gloves and shears on the worktable, then inspects the roses. He has long, clever-looking fingers tipped with mother-of-pearl nails. I've never seen them before.

There's something wrong with one flower. It's slightly shriveled. The Goblin King cradles the sad petals in his naked fingers and calmly look at me. "Do you know how to fix this?"

I scrunch my nose. "A spray, maybe? I don't have a green thumb."

"Botanical knowledge is irrelevant. All things are sourced by the same thing." He smirks at me, then does something amazing: he bends down to the flower and breathes on it, just exhales long and softly, and the air twinkles. Before my eyes, the petals plump up and unfurl themselves, the leaves shake themselves out, and the rose is suddenly whole and new. It's even more vibrant than all its kin.

"Whoa!" I breathe, dumbstruck. After a beat, I finally catch sight of the Goblin King, who's practically preening at me.

"Merely a trifle," he insists, although his smile could swallow me whole. "Now ... your turn."

"Who, me?"

He cocks his head. "Who else?"

"I can't ... I mean ..."

"Yeeeeeessss, Sarah," he purrs. "Tell us what other excuses you have for putting off living your life."

I bristle. No way am I going to let him know he's gotten to me. I determinedly lean over the rose, trying to ignore the  _ **very**  _interested look on His Nib's face as I gently blow. The reaction from the flower is violent and immediate: it shakes as if struck by a powerful gale, then collapses in on itself, shaking off petals and leaves as it dies. Within seconds, I'm staring at a brown, withered husk.

Horrified, I gasp and clap both hands over my mouth. Oh, my God, what have I done?

The Goblin King hums, amazed and intrigued. He runs a knuckle along the flower, but it promptly crumbles into dust. When he looks at me, there's a calculating, alien fire in his eyes.

"I didn't mean it!" I blurt - oh, God, I'm fifteen again, but I really  _ **didn't.**_

"You're under the impression that you did something wrong," he says. "Quite the contrary."

"Goblin King, I  ** _killed_  **it."

"All things must end, Dearest."

* * *

I awaken suddenly in my bedroom to the gentle snoring of goblins and dog. The sun hasn't yet peeked over the urban landscape outside my window. A car passes below in the street with a sloppy  _hush_ ; it's been raining. The Goblin King and the greenhouse are gone. I want to believe that my active imagination supplied the dream, but I doubt it. We share a connection, him and I, that I neither understand nor like.

Breakfast involves corn flakes and coffee, and Boudica sitting on my feet underneath the table as she gnaws on a bone. The goblins grant her a respectful berth and fight among themselves for scraps of bacon. I watch, amused, as the goblin with the peg leg and the goblin with the patch over its eye catch each other in a mutual headlock. "What are your names, anyway?"

Both goblins freeze. "Beg your pardon, Your Majesty?" says the goblin with the peg leg.

"Your names," I insist. "I can't keep calling you guys  _Hey, You_  or  _Stop That_. What are your names?"

The other goblins have stopped fighting and sit in confused piles on the countertop and linoleum floor. They regard each other, vexed. Then the goblin with the blue-striped sock for a hat declares, "I'm Lucky, ma'am." The tone in its voice indicates confusion and awe, as if I've suggested the goblins take up polo. "On account of how I keep cheatin' death."

This is true. In the last week alone, Lucky has avoided becoming a stray dog's dinner, street pizza by a police cruiser, and recycling by a trash compacter. Lucky has more lives than a cat.

"I'm Bertrand," says the goblin with the patch over its eye.

"Lucius," pipes up the goblin with the peg leg.

"Orson," declares the goblin with the curly horns.

"Hobb," says the goblin wielding the rubber chicken.

"Wicket," says the goblin with the long nose.

"Skeet," says the goblin who originally landed in my underwear drawer. It has the ugliest face of all, as if it's run repeatedly into a brick wall. Unlike the other goblins, Skeet wears a full set of leather armor and loves strawberries. The other goblins loathe strawberries. Taste funny and get stuck in your craw, Bertrand had complained.

"Why haven't you introduced yourselves before?" I ask, bewildered.

"It usually don't matter, Your Majesty," explains Lucius. "The Goblin King, he don't care."

"He's got to care," I insist. "A name is the most important thing you own. It's what makes you, well,  ** _you_**."

The goblins collectively shrug, but their expressions are soft and a little more reverent than usual. I've asked to use their names. That distinguishes me.

"Well," I tell them, "my name is Sarah Anne Williams. We've had other goblins sneak in and out the last few days, but you guys remain the core crowd, so I think that loyalty makes you my own special goblins." They beam proudly, revealing rows of sharp, pockmarked teeth. I peek my head out the curtains. Unbelievable: the media vultures still crowd around the front door to the building, and at least two news vans dominate the curb as if they own it.

When I turn back to my goblins, my jaw is clenched. "Okay, guys, I need your help."

* * *

Goblins, I've discovered, are like little time bombs waiting to go off. Fortunately, this can be used to your advantage. Like a musical instrument, you only need to know how to play them.

With some strict orders in place, the goblins hustle downstairs and proceed to rain havoc on the unsuspecting journalists: destroying camera lenses, shredding cords, tripping feet. I wait two minutes, then bring Boudica downstairs to do her business. There are people milling about in the lobby - strangers with perfect hair and prominent media passes on their lapels - but they're too busy swatting at invisible pests to take notice of us. By the time I bring Boudica back inside, all of the tires on the news vans have gone flat, and the electricity in the lobby has gone out. The goblins wait until I've climbed to the second story before electricity magically reappears in the building so we can ride the rest of the way up in the elevator.

Boudica looks mournfully at me as I lock her up in the apartment. "Sorry, girl," I whisper. "I'll need to be inconspicuous today. I'll take you out to play when I get home, I promise."

"Woof," Boudica replies, distraught. I give her extra chew toys before I lock the front door on her adorable face.

The goblins are busy torturing journalists at the front and back doors. I don't know if I can go out again without risking recognition. At the end of my hallway, through the frosted glass overlooking the alley between this building and the next ... I perk up instantly.

* * *

Shimmying down the fire escape is not that hard. The ladder drops with a little applied weight, and I have to jump the remaining few feet to reach the ground. I'm standing in the alleyway next to a dumpster and the emergency exit.

In my travels, I've learned how to slip unnoticed through crowds. I use that tactic now, with the aid of a knitted hat under which I've stuffed all my long black hair, and a ratty hoodie that I pull up over the hat and my head. When I walk out of the alley onto the sidewalk, I keep my eyes on my phone as if I'm dialing, and my free hand in my pocket.

I can see the journalists out of the corner of my eye. They're busy reorganizing themselves after the goblin onslaught, and they're clearly pissed. A large crowd of passersby has stopped to stare without actually offering any assistance. Gotta love New Jersey.

I grin wickedly.  _Naughty, naughty ... you're getting way more enjoyment out of this than is healthy._  I feel pretty goblin-ish, myself.

With the journalists distracted, I slip sideways and vanish into the crowd.

* * *

The next few days revolve around job hunting, errands, and fielding nosy phone calls from the media and every acquaintance I've ever known. I never want to be famous. Dying in anonymity sounds like a treat.

_I never knew you were Linda Young's **daughter**! It's been too long, Sarah. We should hang out. _ Every phone call from a long-lost classmate makes me shut my eyes and forcibly gather myself. Twice, my phone rings from a number I never thought I'd see again: an ex named Ben, a guy I dated when I was twenty and who I had the misfortune to run into shortly after my return to the States. I never pick up.

My frequent goblin-aided escapes from home only work for a day before someone recognizes me. Then it's a free-for-all as a crush of reporters descends every time I enter or exit my building.  _Sarah! Sarah! Ms. Williams! Do you have a statement for the press? How do you feel in the wake of your mother's death? Is it true you have plans to go into acting? Can you substantiate the rumors about your relationship with your mother?_

Keep calm and carry on, Williams. I always push my way through the crowd murmuring the same thing: No comment. No comment. I have to take public transit everywhere, which is a major pain in my ass. I don't want journalists linking me to my car or license plate.

France or Turkey are sounding good. Maybe someplace new. I hear Crete is nice. I pull up Expedia and research plane tickets. A one-way ticket to Antalya is $721. I'll retreat back into the world, bury myself in the crowd and vanish like a puff of smoke on the wind, away from the paparazzi and pop of camera lights, away from my mother's name, away from the bullying childhood classmates who never gave a damn about me until I became famous.

I recall what His Majesty said to me in that dream about the roses: _Do you know what your strength is, Sarah Williams? You know how to move among wolves._

The Goblin King has a better bead on me than I gave him credit for. I find myself scanning the intrusive crowd, sometimes, expecting to see a flash of blond hair and that infuriating grin. I never do. During those moments, I feel lonelier than ever, and I reflect on the final part of His Majesty's statement:  _That is an admirable quality in a person, and treasured in a monarch._

_I'm not a queen, Jareth._

The Goblin King obviously thought otherwise. So do my goblins. Haha,  ** _my_  **goblins. Good Lord, I really am a nut job. Queen of the Lunatics, that's me. **  
**

Shayna calls me that week as I'm filling out a job application for a bookstore. "Why in the world are you filling out an application for Barnes & Noble?" She sounds bewildered.

"I need a job, right?"

"Sarah, you supported yourself traveling the globe. Why the hell would you need to work for someone else?"

"Shayna, I can't do that back in the States-"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because ..." This gives me pause.  _Yeah, why not?_  No wonder I had loathed working in offices and classrooms, where every day was the same. It was a gilded cage, and all a bird ever wants to do - what it was  ** _made_  **to do - is fly. Somewhere between my defeat of the Goblin King and my entrance into the adult world, I'd forgotten this.

Before I can properly reply, Shayna rolls right over me. "Listen, Reimi and I want to take you out, get you away from all this attention. Our treat. What do you say?"

"Yes," I reply instantly. Going out with my friends sounds like heaven.

I can hear the smile in Shayna's voice, a mega-watt grin that could power Manhattan for a month. "Perfect! Let's go out and celebrate your freedom from the grad school machine, and those stupid paparazzi. Show those jerks they have no power over you."

I nearly laugh, but I choke a little instead.

* * *

Reimi picks me up that evening, and we run into Shayna on the way out of the building. We make a funny group: Reimi in denim, Shayna in a little black dress, and me in slacks and a silk blouse I'd just cut the store tags off of. Before we left, I'd added a string of pearls and a smudge of red lipstick. The whole effect is very reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich, I'd decided, posing before the bathroom mirror.

My business clothes, the ones I'd worn home from Rutgers the day I got fired, still lay pathetically strewn across the bathtub. They'd definitely have to be dry-cleaned, still smell of damp and sweat. Ah, well. Tomorrow.

There's a bar near campus that we frequent when things aren't hellish like this week's been, but we forgo that and head into New York, to a bar that's gotten high praise from Zagat. The trip in starts off uneventful: we leave the subway and walk the final block to the bar in high spirits. I can see the place across the street. We're almost there.

The light turns, and we cross Broadway. Halfway across the street, something moves in the corner of my vision, something that resembles the photo negative of a solar flare. I turn to follow the shadow, but my heel catches on something and I fall.

Reimi is immediately at my side, catching me as I tumble. "Whoa, Sarah! Steady there, girl!"

I'm barely listening. There, across the street, between the garbage can and the post office box: a figure. Dark. Fair hair. My throat closes up before I remember the Goblin King is very tall and this person is far too short. Definitely male, though. I can tell that much from the build.

But it's the face that scares me. The man's face is a whorl of melted flesh, like a candle dropped into a fire.

As I gasp, someone shakes me. " _ **SARAH! GET UP!**_ " In the distance - far away but not far enough - a truck horn blares impending doom.

We half-stumble, half-scramble for the sidewalk as taxis swerve around us, honking angrily. I jerk from Reimi's grasp and scan the opposite side of the street. The man with the melted face is gone.

"Christ, honey, are you okay?" Reimi looks worried. "What did you see?"

I shudder. "I'm not sure."

Shayna is already flirting with the bouncer.

* * *

We find a table in the back and sit down thirty seconds before the rest of New York pours through the doors, and after that we have to yell orders to the waitress. We talk of shallow things for a while, until Reimi glances at me, perhaps gauging whether I've recovered from nearly dying. "So, what are you going to do now that your job gave you the boot?"

I press the heels of my hands into my eyeballs. "Not sure. I have some contacts at the recruiting agency I used last time. I'll give them a call tomorrow."

"Why?" Reimi asks. "Sarah, you could be self-employed, easy. You hate working for other people and you hate being tied down. Why not get your own clients and do whatever the fuck you want?"

"I don't know if I can do it." It sounds pathetic to my own ears.

She whistles. "Man, you've forgotten how to dream."

Ouch. Before I can respond, I catch movement across the room: a pair of goblins work in tandem to push a line of wine bottles off the bar. Lucius and Bertrand, the little imps.

"Bathroom," I mumble as I shoot out of my seat. On the way to the toilet, I stop by the bar to order a beer I won't drink. As the bartender turns his back, I reach out with both hands and drag the squealing goblins away from the bottles. "I told you guys that you can hang out only if you behave!" I snap. "It's not that difficult, is it?"

The goblins have the temerity to look ashamed. "Sorry, Your Majesty," Bertrand mutters.

"We're just havin' fun," says Lucius. "It's not much fun back home."

"It'll be a lot more fun if you don't torture Boudica."

"Not that home, the other home. The Labyrinth."

My interest piques, but I smother it. "Look, you can stay, alright? But no damaging anything. Or making anyone else damaging something by tripping them. Go do whatever else goblins do." The pair grin as I walk away. "... but no baby-snatching!" I add over my shoulder. Their faces fall.

On my way out of the bathroom, a drunk girl spills beer down the front of the beautiful silk blouse. "Oh, no!" she gasps. "I hope that's not new!"

My smile feels like saran wrap on my face.

* * *

I return to the table to find Shayna and Reimi looking pained. I see why: a handsome man leans over their table looking like he belongs there. Reimi flashes me a warning look behind his back, but he turns before I can scamper away. "Sarah!" he exclaims in a voice that's too loud even for a bar, and the place momentarily hushes. "Didn't expect to see you guys here. Jesus, what happened to your shirt?"

Ben. Ben Whitlock. Damn. How'd he know I'd be at  ** _this_  **bar at  ** _this_  **time? Last I heard, he'd left New York. Ben dips a napkin in a glass of ice water and hands it to me, but I refuse to take it. He probably just wants to get my shirt as transparent as possible, anyway.

"I'm fine," I reply, refusing to sit. "You?"

"Oh, you know, another day, another dollar. Mind if I join you?"

"I certainly do!" Reimi exclaims, parking her long legs into the lone available chair.

Ben's smile can charm the pants off of anyone who doesn't know him - a skill he's successfully used on half of the women in New York. "No need for histrionics. I was asking Sarah."

"Don't ignore my friend," I snap. "And I don't care to see you either, so off you go."

He sighs. "Sarah, look, I know it's been a while-"

"Ben, don't."

"-but I wanted to apologize."

I stare at him in open-mouthed shock before regaining my composure. "Not necessary. Believe me."

"It's just five minutes of your time." Ben holds up all the fingers on one hand and mouths  _five_. He looks contrite and hopeful and sheepish and adorable. Once upon a time, when I was twenty, I would have fallen for that puppy dog look ... but that was a long time ago, and I'm a different person now.

"I'm really uninterested." To my surprise, I discover I am. Ben hurt me, once, and I thought I'd never get over it. He was an upperclassman at SUNY, and I used to admire him. Now, while I'm worried about how to pay the rent next month, and how to piece together my shattered life, I'm pleasantly surprised to discover that Ben appears nowhere on the list of things that matter to me.

Unfortunately, Ben doesn't get it. With dawning horror, I realize he's only getting louder, and now everyone in the bar really  ** _is_  **paying attention. I swear I hear a woman mumble to the bartender, "Isn't that the girl from the news ...?"

Panic. I'm feeling panic. " ** _Fine_** ," I hiss. "We'll talk.  ** _Outside_**."

Reimi looks ready to put Ben through a window. Shayna just looks worried and grapples at my wrist. "Are you sure about this?" she whispers.

"Yes," I say tersely. Later, when I'm calmer, I'll think this is the stupidest decision of my life and that I should have asked the doorman to bounce my ex rather than let him waste more of my time. Hindsight's twenty-twenty like that.

I shoulder my way out of the bar ahead of Ben. Patrons sidestep us, whispering to each other as we go, and the lights in the place brighten until they nearly blind. With a sickening lurch, I'm reminded of a familiar scene, long ago: a silver ballroom festooned with candles and mirrors, where revelers laugh at me from behind fans and masks. My mouth tastes sticky and sweet with a particular fruit I haven't eaten in years. ( _Ugh, peaches._ ) I ignore the disorienting sensation and push my way outside.

The spring air is humid but welcome to my lungs, and I gulp away the sick feeling in my mouth. Ben's behind me. "Want a drink?" he asks. "Something non-alcoholic this time?" He indicates a cafe next door.

"Five minutes," I remind him.

Ben nods, smiling again. Outside in the streetlight, I finally get a good look at him.  _He got his teeth capped,_  is my first unkind thought.  _And dyed his hair. He always did care more about his appearance than anything or anyone else_.

I enter the cafe and don't wait for Ben before grabbing a seat at an empty table. Ben saunters in like he owns the place, radiating fake charm as he goes. The waiter approaches and I'm surprised when Ben orders an herbal tea. "I don't drink anymore," he says in response to my startled look. "You were right, Sarah. Alcohol was ruining my life."

My eyes narrow, but I say nothing. At that moment, my phone vibrates in my purse. I pull it out to find a text message from Reimi:  _we saw u go into the cafe. if ur not out in 5 we will come get u. dont leave with that dbag._ I text back,  _ok_ , and tuck the phone away. When I look up, Ben's expression makes me pause. To the uninitiated, his look might be sweet, even adoring. I know better. Ben's sizing me up.

The waiter returns quickly with our drinks, and my fingers tighten on the teacup I don't want. This was a bad idea.

Ben speaks first. "God, it's good to see you. How long's it been?"

I eye the door, then sigh. "Two years, since that party in Nanuet."

"Eighteen months by my count. You look great, Sarah. Really, really great. I ... I'm sorry how things worked out between us."

"Are you?" I ask thinly. "Look, just say what you came to say, and we can go our separate ways."

Ben has the nerve to look hurt. "Of course I'm sorry. I thought you might be back in New York, and I wanted to make amends. It didn't end so well between us at the end of our relationship. I know we each have our faults, but it didn't have to end the way it did. I got a promotion at work so I'll be traveling a lot to the city for business, and I'd like to see you. We can start over. What do you say?"

The month's losses - of my mother, my job, my privacy, my innocence - have piled up like a car wreck. Ben's suggestion snaps the last shred of my restraint.

"Start over?" I leap to my feet. " _ **Start over?**_ "  _Bad idea, Williams._  Every gossip column between here and Los Angeles would give its eyeteeth for someone's testimony or camera phone pictures of Linda Young's estranged daughter flipping out in a New York City cafe. I suddenly find that I don't care. "You and your drunk asshole buddies tried to make me do a striptease for you, and you want to start over? I had to hitchhike home from Maine, and you want to  _ **start over?**_  You bastard!"

I throw the unwanted tea in his face. It's lukewarm, but Ben reacts as if it's battery acid, falling out of his chair as he paws at his eyes. I only come back to myself after I slam down the teacup, cracking it.

A trio of goblins sitting next to the register cheer. None of the other humans hear them, but I do. Meanwhile, every other person in the cafe has frozen and now stares at me as if my nose has sprouted antlers.

Ben looks up from the floor with the same stupefied expression you see on goldfish. I shove my hands into the pockets of my stylish jacket and drop some crumpled bills onto the table. "Sorry about the teacup." The clerk behind the counter, a skinny teenager with an overbite, nods.

On my way out the door, I briefly turn. "By the way, it's past time for you to lose my number."

* * *

I'm fuming. I don't even head back to the bar but immediately hang a left and storm for the subway.  _Going home_ , I text Reimi and Shayna. _it didnt end well_. I don't wait for a reply.

The A line spits me out at Penn Station, and from there it's an hour ride back to New Brunswick. Once I disembark from the station, it's only a fifteen-minute walk to my apartment. I'm going to put on pajamas and paint something. Or play with Boudica and eat ice cream. Maybe the goblins will be around. Whatever I do, I can't be around other humans right now. Everybody wants something from me that I can't give.

By the time I get to my block, the fury has worn off and I'm drained and shaky. I'm so wound up that I miss the front door of my building and have to backtrack, fumbling in my purse for the key even as I punch in the door code. At least the media hounds have gone home for the night, thank God.

That's when I sense it again - though I can't articulate what "it" is. New Brunswick is always loud, but everything has gone so silent, I think the air must have been sucked out of the atmosphere.

I look up. There, on the corner across the street, swaying like a dazed accident victim, waits the man with the melted face.

My guts twist - and with them, the rest of the world around me. I stumble against the glass front doors. When I open my eyes, the man now stands only twenty feet away on the sidewalk on my side of the street - far too fast for any human to move. I now see that he wears workman's overalls and boots. His obliterated features betray no emotion. He might as well be a corpse.

"What the ...?" My voice reverberates like a jet engine in my ears, it's so loud in this awful silence. "Go away!"

The man with the melted face says nothing. A foul odor assaults my nostrils, much worse than that July 4th barbecue when Dad burned dinner and the fire department had to come. Rotten eggs and charred pork. That's what it smells like.

"Please ..." I'm ashamed to hear myself beg.

The man remains mute.

I turn away and vomit. I puke up everything in my stomach, keep puking until all that comes up is something green that sears my throat. Gasping, I clutch at the brick with fingers grown thick and useless, then turn back, huffing as I wipe at my chin.

The man's gone.

Sound returns to the city with a thunderclap. I become aware of a car alarm shrieking further up the block, and a couple - drunk on alcohol or love - laugh as they dash into the street and nearly get plastered by a cab.

My eyes dart everywhere, seeking, but the apparition is gone. I hear a frightened whine, think it's a stray dog, then realize it's coming from myself. It takes me three tries before I punch in the correct door code, and I make sure to pull the door firmly closed behind me before stumbling toward the stairs. The heavy flashlight's already in my hand and I don't remember ever pulling it from my purse. I don't remember the climb up the staircase either.

Of the goblins, there's no sign.

My neighbors are congregating outside their apartments - some of them college kids, others young working stiffs, and all of them glare as I stagger down the hall. I've become the person weird things happen around, the one whose presence invites visits from cops, electricians, and paparazzi in equal measure. But they draw back in alarm when they see the look on my face, and a gangling kid in a hood calls out, "Yo, miss, you alright?" with what sounds like genuine concern in his voice.

"Mm-hmm," I mumble as I brush past them all. My hand already holds my key, and I shove it into the lock on my door.

The inside of my apartment is warm like a cocoon. I lock the door behind me, slide the dead-bolt home, try to toss my purse onto the chair but miss. It hits the floor with a resounding  _thunk_. Something rolls out of it and across the floorboards. Probably my lipstick. I leave the mess and make a beeline for my bedroom.

Baseball bat in hand, I scour every inch of the apartment, checking behind every door and curtain until I'm satisfied I'm alone. Well, not entirely. By then, the goblins have shown up, but they don't rush out to greet me as they usually do. Their faces peer at me from the shadows, pinched and confused, as if they've never seen me before.

"Am I insane?" I whisper.  _I'm asking for a psychological evaluation from my imaginary friends. Holy shit, Sarah._ Wicket titters until Lucky jabs him in the ribs.

I'd been looking forward to a shower, but I bypass the bathroom and return to the bedroom, head throbbing. I don't know what to make of anything. If I smoked, now would be the time for a cigarette. Instead I strip off the dirty clothes - my second outfit this week ruined - and waste three seconds looking for clean pajamas before I give up and collapse naked into bed, rolling myself up into the sheets like a mummy.

The darkness is oppressive, and I have terrible dreams that I won't remember in the morning. I only remember the frightened plea that I make as sleep claims me. "Jareth ..." _  
_

* * *

Deep below, in that cavernous world where nightmares breathe themselves into being and monsters walk unchecked, I feel Jareth awaken like a banked fire roaring to life.

* * *

_To be continued._


	8. A brief interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the early morning, as the newspaper trucks make their rounds, as Sarah Williams lies locked and twitching in her nightmares, a man appears on a Brooklyn street corner.

 

_"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."_

-J.K. Rowling

* * *

Once upon a time, when no one else was in earshot, Leonardo Da Vinci stated that the only reason human societies have not already imploded in panic and anarchy is due to a twofold lie. As we have no witnesses to his statement, its wisdom has been tragically lost to history until this moment.

The lie runs as follows: 1) Humans exist at the top of the food chain, and 2) humans are the only intelligent life on Earth.

Most humans will never question this lie – or if they do, it's because they're UFO nuts and believe extraterrestrials exist somewhere out there but never here on Earth. Barely anyone considers the fact that plenty of intelligent life exists alongside us all the time. We just choose not to see.

Sarah is currently indisposed, trapped in a landscape of her worst dreams, and the Goblin King cannot be trusted to accurately relate other people's opinions of him, so the author has seen fit to intercede and tell this part of the tale. We'll be brief, we promise.

* * *

Imagine this scene with us, if you can:

In the early morning, as the newspaper trucks make their rounds, as Sarah Williams lies locked and twitching in her nightmares, a man appears on a Brooklyn street corner. The author means that literally, for he pops into existence with a shudder usually reserved for people shaking off the stone fetters of sleep.

How to describe this person? To begin, it's clear he isn't a person, or at least not of the human sort. He's a little too thin and a little too languid in his movements, as if he walks through a dream. His teeth are too pointed and his eyes are – how can we state this politely? His eyes look like buttons a tailor has pulled at random from a drawer.

Some women (and a fair number of men) find that sort of look attractive. Others find it disturbing. Most people who interact with the Goblin King don't remember anything afterward, so we can't ask their opinion anyway.

We actually have a live witness to this scene, a widow who's lived in Park Slope for thirty years. On this dawn, Mrs. Andrea McGovern is letting out her cat, Mr. Chubbs, and she hesitates for a moment on the stoop of her building. She doesn't truly understand what she's seeing as this strange gentleman winks into existence on the corner of 7th and 7th. Perhaps it's a trick of the light. Perhaps she's going mad.

Then the strange gentleman walks toward her, passing her by with a grin and a nod to let her know that all is well, and the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach dissipates like dandelion fluff on the wind. By the time she's gone back inside, she's forgotten about this encounter altogether.

But you and I know better, and we know that this strange gentleman is actually the Goblin King. On this cool spring morning, he wears a charcoal 3-piece suit and Italian leather shoes so polished that he can almost see his reflection in their brown faces. His short hair is a mess but knowing him, that's probably intentional. He prefers people to think that he hasn't tried at all when, in point of fact, he's spent a lot of energy and practiced much precision to get every detail perfect.

This sort of anal retentiveness has been known to induce heart attacks in mortal men. Immortality allows greater wiggle room for unhealthy habits.

If Mrs. McGovern could remember anything of her interaction with the Goblin King that morning, she would tell you something like this:  _He was the most handsome man I ever laid eyes on in my life, God_ _bless my dear Ricky. Strange eyes, though. And that smile! Positively inhuman!_

Yes. Yes, he is.

The Goblin King winds his way up 7th Avenue, past the Methodist Hospital and a Barnes & Noble. The outdoor patio of an Italian restaurant is abandoned at this hour save for some roosting pigeons, but a few people are milling about.

One of them, a man possessed by a low-level water demon, feels nervous in the Goblin King's presence and offers His Royal Highness a wide berth.

A block north, our Villain passes two vampires returning home from a night of clubbing. They nod respectfully in his direction and pretend henceforth to be especially interested in their own feet. In response, the Goblin King flashes his teeth. To most people, it would appear he's laughing. Those in the know understand that it's an alpha dog's instinct to snarl a warning to everyone he meets.

On 5th Street, a delivery person (a human) crosses the king's path while struggling under a crate of bottled water. He notices the Goblin King's fancy attire and beautiful face and for a moment, all thoughts of his cheating louse of an ex-boyfriend go straight out of his head. As the Goblin King passes, so does the moment, and the delivery man shakes off the strange feeling and returns to his work.

Our Villain passes another row of brownstones, frowns, scratches his face, backtracks, begins to count. When he's not in our world for long periods of time (or at least, not in human form), he forgets things we take for granted like street addresses.

The Goblin King finds his bearings. Ah, yes. Here. He walks three buildings down and pauses at the gate of a quaint house with a recently-renovated front porch and ivy overrunning the trellis. The gate is wrought in black iron in the shape of a cross. Beyond that, the red front door bears a five-pointed star that would make any passer-by assume the household had a family member in the military, but the Goblin King knows better: it's a disguised pentagram, which makes him smile.

_It's almost charming you think that will work on me._

He unlatches the gate with one gloved finger, then skips up the walk like an errant schoolboy. A surly striped cat (a sworn enemy of neighboring Mr. Chubbs) lies in wait behind the rhododendrons. The Goblin King sees her first and hisses, sending the cat fleeing beneath the porch with a yowl.

" _ **Goblin King**_ _._ " The title stops him dead on the brick walk. He looks up to see an older woman with gray-blond hair and a sour expression. In her hands she holds a pair of gardening shears. Anyone else would fear the weapon in her hands and the look on her face, but not the Goblin King. He has little to fear from those under his power.

"Are you always up this early?" he queries.

"Only on days when I know I have to do damage control," she retorts.

He responds with a particularly toothy grin. "Muriel, aggravation is very becoming on you. It brings out the blue in your eyes."

"Oh please, Your Majesty, stop trying to butter me up and come in. I'll get more accomplished today if we skip your games and get straight to what you want."

And that is how Muriel enters our story.

* * *

Strictly speaking, the Goblin King doesn't need to eat, but like many things humans can do with their bodies, he enjoys eating. Muriel makes delicious cookies: spongy, buttery things in the shape of scallop shells. The humans call them madeleines, if his memory serves him right. They go down well with a cup of chamomile tea, which his host happens to have.

He removes his gloves in order to eat. They're brown unlined lambskin, the kind James Bond wears in the films, and so thin that they peel from his hands with the slow stubbornness of lingerie. Muriel looks away as if she's intruding on a private moment, as if he's not the one who's barged into  ** _her_  **kitchen. When he's done eating, Jareth licks his naked fingers and hums his approval.

"Your species never fails to impress," he murmurs around a mouthful of yellow cake. "Fire, computers, baking … I can't say I'm particularly interested in your computers, but the culinary creations you whip up certainly go a long way in making Earth feel a little more like Heaven."

Muriel says nothing, merely leans against the counter-top, arms crossed. Jareth can tell that she fights a desperate urge to nervously tap the floor. He smiles behind the rim of a fine bone china teacup. "So, to business! Speaking of which, how  _ **is**_  business?"

The human woman nods without smiling. "Same as usual. Busy. Hard."

Jareth mirrors her, nodding in false sympathy. "Yes, you did pick a tricky line of work."

"I seem to recall it picked me."

"Hmm. Yes, I seem to recall that as well." He reclines in the chair and regards her with an evaluating look and not a little affection. It's the sort of expression one sees on a man who's particularly proud of a prized racehorse he has bred and trained. "The crown requires your help."

"Of course. What is it this time?"

"You sound put upon, my dear. I do hope that isn't the case."

"With you? Never."

Muriel is one of the few servants who hasn't bowed completely to the Goblin King's authority. She is never brazenly rude, always skirting a fine line between obedience and snark while never failing to address him by his proper titles. And Muriel can always be counted on for her loyalty. After a lifetime of her faithful service, Jareth finds that she remains one of the few people he can trust in any circumstance. So he allows her eccentric quirks and near-but-not-quite-contempt, which annoys and amuses him in equal measure.

Jareth doesn't have many confidantes, and he has no friends. If it were possible for the Goblin King to have the luxury of a friend, he supposes Muriel would be one of his.

"Your excitement is exhilarating," he drawls. "I have a job for you … or perhaps it's more of a project."

"A project?" A well forms on her brow. Muriel has been a beautiful woman since her youth, and age hasn't dimmed that beauty but altered it. Even when she frowns, she looks noble and not terribly concerned by the state of the world outside, as if all that matters is what happens within her own walls.

"Yes, my dear, a project. I believe I've found you a student."

The frown deepens. "Are you picking my student body for me now?"

"No. I've granted you freedom that is unparalleled among my subjects. Until now, you've more or less done as you pleased. I now request your help, in return for one or two small favors the crown may have granted you over the years." His tone is mocking, but it contains an edge that Muriel can't miss.  _One or two small favors_  doesn't cover half of what he has done for her, foolish woman.

Her mouth thins, but she nods, having heard the silent rebuke. "Of course, Your Majesty. What am I to teach this student?"

"Everything you do."

Dead silence greets this announcement. He may as well have just announced to a packed church congregation that he's not wearing any pants.

"I would not dare guess at Your Majesty's motives," Muriel says slowly, "but-"

"You are very wise," Jareth replies in a tone that subtly hints it is time to shut up.

Muriel ignores the latent warning. "-what you're proposing is dangerous and probably impossible."

He shrugs. "You survived."

"Others haven't."

"She will. Or she won't. But I think she will."

"So it's a girl, is it?"

"Oh, no. A woman."

"Age?"

"Why don't you ask her when you meet her?"

"Will you tell me anything about her at all?"

"No. But you're to teach her everything. Work her hard." His sudden grin is diabolical. "You always did like those sermonizing little Edwardian stories about wicked headmistresses working their young charges like slaves."

He stands a little too quickly, and the room swims. Jareth catches himself before Muriel notices and makes a show of donning his gloves.

"How bad is it in the Underground?" she asks sadly, and Jareth finds himself annoyed that she's not as blind as he'd hoped. Aren't mortals supposed to go blind and senile in their mature years? He's taught her too well.

"Still not as bad as my infamous temper," he quips with a lightness he doesn't feel. He's exhausted and, not for the first time, regrets offering Sarah another chance to make a stupid wish. It would have been far easier to find another loophole and just take her - but no, he had to be swayed by the promise of the hunt.  _I will never underestimate her again._ "Teach her, and then I shall work with her."

"You're assuming a lot."

" _ **You**_  are forgetting your station!" Jareth snaps, and the earth trembles at his words. The fine china on the credenza rattle in their berths. The potted plants sway from the ceiling. Something in the foyer shatters, then several other things follow suit with a staccato of glass meeting tile: _Kshh, kshh, kshh!_  Outside, car alarms begin to shriek, one after another, like a row of landmines setting each other off.

Terrified, Muriel pinches her mouth shut and bows her head. The earth immediately settles. The cars outside continue to wail, oblivious to the sudden, awful stillness.

He leaves by the front door without saying goodbye or cleaning up any of his dirty dishes. The cat, which hasn't moved since his arrival, growls at him from beneath the porch. He ignores the frightened animal and lets himself out the front gate – the gate inlaid with ancient symbols meant to keep out creatures such as himself. Up and down the street, Muriel's neighbors run from their homes to ask each other if they're alright, is everyone okay, did they feel that tremor? Brooklyn doesn't get many earthquakes. _  
_

The bay sends a salty breeze that rustles the trees up and down 7th Avenue. Jareth allows himself to melt into the wind and far away.

* * *

_To be continued._


	9. Cleverness is not wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was just a game, and I won."
> 
> "There's consequences for everything, Sarah."

"The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet."

\- C. Joybell C.

* * *

**Neo:**  You ever have that feeling where you're not sure if you're awake or still dreaming?  
 **Choi:**  Mmm, all the time. It's called mescaline. It's the only way to fly.

\- The Matrix

* * *

I think I'm dead ... until an obnoxious beeping noise rips me back to the land of the living. I crack an eyelid and immediately regret it. My eyeballs feel like they're melting.  _There is no way anyone can feel this bad and still be alive._ Half-blind and dizzy with nausea, I swat my alarm clock off the nightstand, which doesn't stop the horrible shrieking noise, not until I reach behind the furniture and rip the cord out of the outlet.

I've never had a hangover because I've never been drunk, but I feel a late pang of sympathy for every person who ever showed up for my class looking like an asphyxiated rat.  _How can I feel this bad? I didn't even drink last night before -_

The previous night resurfaces in my memory with the speed and ferocity of a train. Oh, my God. Last night really happened. I chewed Ben out and got followed home by a ... a ... I can't name it. If I name it, it'll become real.

Too stunned to move, I lay in bed for what feels like hours but what probably only lasts minutes. When the Labyrinth reentered my life, I'd accepted it pretty well, I think. Some part of me always knew that the Goblin King and his strange kingdom were all real, but I'd never given serious thought to what else lurks out there in the shadows. The idea that real monsters can follow me home makes me want to barricade myself in my bathroom for the rest of my life.

The beeping noise starts up again, and I'm awake enough to realize it's coming from the living room. The aggression I took out on my alarm clock appears to have been misguided. The sound is faint but just annoying enough that I won't be able to go back to sleep until I kill it. Oh, my cell phone. I vaguely recall dumping my purse on the floor when I came home, before or after I latched the door.

My brain swims as I bolt upright in bed.  _I abandoned Reimi and Shayna at the bar!_  As I scramble for the door, winding the bed sheet around my body as I go, the room cants sideways. I collide messily with a wall before successfully reaching the den.

Boudica sits on her bed next to the TV, her eyes tracking my every move. She looks pensive. The guts of my purse lay scattered across the floor, along with dirt and the remains of a plant someone knocked over. (The dog? The goblins? Me?) It takes a minute of hunting, but I finally find my cell under the television stand. Goblin tooth marks mar the casing. I growl a little.  _Lucky, you and I are going to have a chat about respecting people's belongings._

Several messages await me. The screen lights up as I hold it and I answer, cringing. "Hello?"

"Sarah?"

I'm already running into the bedroom to find clothes, but I can't help wincing at the tone in Shayna's voice. "Shayna, I am so sorry. Where are you guys? Are you okay?"

"Are  _ **we**_  okay?  _ **We**_  are fine, but we had to crash Rico's last night. What about  _ **you**_? We pounded on the front door but you never answered."

 _They came all the way back to New Brunswick to make sure I was alive? Oh, my God._ "Sorry, Shayna, I can't –"

"Sarah?" a gravely voice calls out from the wall near my closet. I whirl in fright, almost dropping both phone and bedsheet. A creature stands on the other side of my full-length mirror, looking about as surprised and confused as I feel. It's too big and too stout to be a goblin, dressed in threadbare clothes and a leather cap, with a honking red nose and gnarled hands.

I know this creature. I know him.

"Hedgewart!" I yelp, delighted.

"Sar-" My words sink in a second too late, and whatever he's about to say next gets lost in a sputter of righteous indignation. "Hoggle!  ** _Hog-gle!_** "

"Sarah?" Far away, Shayna sounds angry. "Is someone there with you?"

My jaw's working, but it takes two beats before any sound comes out. I can't tear my eyes from the apparition in my mirror. "No. No, there isn't."

"Ben didn't come home with you, did he?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"Hey, don't get snippy with me, I'm just saying – first you get upset last night and bail on us, then we get locked out, and now I heard a guy's voice there with you."

"Shayna, it's the TV. There's nobody here." Hoggle look ready to argue, but I frantically gesture at him to be silent.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! I had a rough night, but I'm not stupid!"

"Chill, girl, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on. You scared the crap out of us. I've never seen you like that before. I know Ben never … I know things ended badly last time."

I try to match the olive branch in Shayna's voice. "Yeah … but I cut the cord last night before I left the cafe. And  _ **yes**_ , he stayed behind."

"Sorry, babe. But you gotta admit, you acted weird. Did you stop to wonder how Ben just so  _ **happened**  _to be at the same bar as us?"

My heart sinks into my toes. "Do I want to know?"

"The bartender was his brother at Phi Beta Sigma. Apparently, Ben put out a call to everyone he knew that he was visiting New York and wanted to find you. When you walked in, Jaime rang Ben up and told him to come over."

I groan. "How'd you find this out?"

"Reimi's persuasive."

 _Ha!_  I've seen Reimi interrogate people before. My attention snaps back to Shayna in time to hear her say, "-and then the front door was locked, and we had to harass Rico for sleeping space since Reimi's roommate's boyfriend was in town."

"Was Rico mad?"

"No, but I already owe him a favor from last week, so now I feel like a bum."

"God, Shayna, I'm sorry. Yesterday was awful, start to finish. I gotta get dressed and … and figure out some things. You going to work today?"

"Same as every day. Call me later, alright? Let me know you're okay."

"Uh huh." I hang up and sway messily in place for a moment. It could be a dream. Could be. I slowly, slowly peek over my shoulder. The dwarf still stands inside my mirror, looking more than a little flummoxed. "Hoggle. Your name is Hoggle."

He harrumphs. "Doesn't take you long, does it?"

"Sorry, I've been remembering a lot of things the last month. I remember you were my guide, when I was a kid, when I went through the Labyrinth. You helped me."

Hoggle looks uncomfortable. "I did what I was s'posed to, missy."

He also betrayed me to Jareth. I think Hoggle remembers this the same time I do, because we regard each other solemnly for a long moment. Hoggle looks away first. "Yeah, I guess you did," I finally say. "What are you doing inside my mirror?"

"Me?" Hoggle looks far too innocent to be genuine. "Heard tell from some little birdies you had a nasty jolt last night, that's what."

I raise an eyebrow at the goblins, who believe themselves to be crowded surreptitiously at my door. They immediately hide at my glance, and I knock the door shut with my foot. I feel sick. "What was that thing outside?"

"Do I look like a magician? That's a question best left for You Know Who."

"Jareth."

Hoggle ducks his head at the floor. "You shouldn't say his name," he mumbles. "Well, I guess  _ **you**  _can."

The Hoggle I remember from childhood was fearless before the Goblin King, and it was he who blurted Jareth's name to me in the first place. Hoggle's changed. I've changed. Everything has, I guess. I feel sad and I don't know why. "You never came back, after my victory party. You and ... and the others."

"Who, Didymus and Ludo?"

Faces well up from the recesses of my subconscious. A fox with a flowing mustache and a patch over one eye. A great hairy beast with a sweet disposition, a horned monster who cried when upset and who could call rocks. Didymus and Ludo. No,  _ **Sir**  _Didymus. He was knighted, he deserved the title. It's just like Hoggle to forget it.

When I look at Hoggle again, I must look like a lunatic, I'm grinning so big. "Yes. Sir Didymus and Ludo. Exactly."

"You stopped dreaming about us, same as most little girls, though they forget earlier than you did. You ** _grew up_**  is what happened. It happens to the best of 'em."

There's a sore spot on my cheek that I can't stop rubbing. I can feel my face, feel my feet, feel the floorboards beneath them, so I know this is all real, yet it's taking my mind a while to catch up. "What's His Majesty up to?"

"You'd know better'n anyone. Why don't you ask him?"

"Sorry, Hoggle, I don't exactly have him on speed dial." I can't help sounding petulant.

The sound that erupts from Hoggle might be a snort. "Now you're just being ignorant, is what. So much for you." He turns and starts to leave. His figure shrinks as he moves farther away, into the empty whiteness of the mirror.

"Wait."

He looks back at me. I get the sense he's tired. "Yes, ma'am?"

"If you see His Majesty, tell him what the goblins told you, about what I saw last night. Something's going on that I don't understand, and it frightens me. I need allies right now." I'm hesitant to call His Nibs a friend, but he's the only person who understands what I've been through, from the very beginning: the Labyrinth, my travels, my dreams. There's something very intimate about sharing one's dreams. Reimi and Shayna, my two best friends, thought I was making up Toby's kidnapping. Neither one's a magician, nor can they help me with monsters. They've never lost someone the way I lost Mom, either.

The look on His Majesty's face when I made my wish ... he looked as if I'd shot him. I recognized that face. It mirrored what I've felt ever since that night when Mom's suicide made the news. The Goblin King is a trickster, yet in a perverse way, I trust him more than I do anyone else. We've both lost dearly and, as a rule, the Goblin King is so openly manipulative that it's almost like honesty.

No, for better or worse, I'm stuck with him. I get the sense I've even won his grudging respect; I'm annoyed to say he's won mine, or else I'd never have envied his wisdom so much. Hard to dislike the guy properly when he has some good qualities. I try not to think about the softness in his eyes when I got scared after making my wish, or the warmth of his breath against my cheek. Doing so confuses me, and I hate feeling confused.

Meanwhile, the dwarf in my mirror sighs and rubs his scalp like my father does whenever Toby or I nettle him. The comparison seems ridiculous in my head, but I absolutely refuse to smile. It would be terrible if Hoggle thought I were laughing at him. "Alright," Hoggle mutters, "but His Majesty probably knows all about this situation already."

I shudder at the memory of the man with the melted face. "So much the better."

"Sarah? Whatever's going on, I bet you dollars to dung beetles this is just the beginning. Strange things've been afoot ever since you left."

"Strange even for the Labyrinth?"

"Well, nobody like you'd ever shown up His Majesty before."

I wave a dismissive hand. "It was just a game, and I won."

"There's consequences for everything, Sarah."

* * *

A shower wakes me up, coffee renews my courage, and the sunlight outside almost melts away the nightmarish memories of last night. Almost. I cast a feverish glance at the sidewalk where the … that man stood and watched me, right before I puked. In the daylight, surrounded by joggers and shoppers and cops checking parking meters, the street seems ludicrously normal, as if last night were nothing but a bad movie.

Biting my lip, I turn away and walk east until I find a deli with an outdoor terrace where I can read a paper with my breakfast.

I have no job to hurry to, no partner to worry about, no family obligations. Apart from next month's rent, I'm beholden to nothing. There's something oddly satisfying about that.  _When was the last time I just read a paper and watched the world go by?_  I lazily stretch and munch my bagel as I scan the crowd.

I cast a cursory glance at the Want ads.  _Medical office, experience needed – don't have any, so that's out. Receptionist – no money. Personal assistant? That sounds interesting … Flexible hours, benefits, "strictest confidentiality required." Bet it's a celebrity. Geez, it's in Brooklyn. Do I want to travel to Brooklyn every day?_  I massage my temples, tired.  _No sense turning down an opportunity right out of the gate._

I toss my garbage and head back into the sunshine.  _I don't need to make any decisions right now. Let's see what the head hunter says._

It's a short jaunt into the city by train, and a pleasant walk from Penn Station to the office. You never hear birdsong in Manhattan due to the clanking of trucks and the beeping of garage alarms as cars back out into the street. But today I notice blue birds flitting about in the trees on the sidewalk. On instinct, I glance up, wondering if I'll see an owl, but of course it's too early for that.

* * *

The recruiting agency is a small midtown office sporting plastic plants and smelling faintly of mothballs and cat piss. The other nervous young people in the waiting room wear black suits and frowns. I'm reminded of a funeral parlor, and I'm tapped out on funerals.

"Sarah?" My recruiter appears. Nicole's a year younger than me and always terrified of losing her job, which seems a stupid thing to be afraid of now. (Once you actually lose your job, or your little brother is kidnapped by goblins, or a god chooses you for his own personal toy, most normal fears seem downright mundane.) Between Nicole's skinny frame and the anxious way her hands constantly flutter, she puts me to mind of a hummingbird. "I'm so sorry to hear about your job! Thanks for, um, stopping by."

Her gaze lingers on my battered leather jacket and boots, which I ignore. Nicole has my resume, has seen me interview … at this point, I don't give a damn about protocol. I want comfort.

I shrug. "Minor setback. You said you had a job come in?"

"Oh, yeah, just yesterday. C'mon back." She leads me to a closet at the end of the hall. I'm through the door when I realize it's Nicole's office. I smile politely and cram myself into a bucket chair next to the coat rack. "Have you ever been a personal assistant?"

"Nope."

"Really? It's been a while since I reviewed your resume, but I could've sworn you were a personal assistant at one point."

"No, never."

"Huh. Weird. Well, given your experience, I still think this might be a good match for you. Got a personal assistant position in Brooklyn. Long-time client, very professional. Bit of a stickler for details."

A memory tugs at the recesses of my mind. "Brooklyn? This job wouldn't require 'strictest confidentiality', would it?"

Nicole blinks. "Actually, yes. Why do you ask?"

I still have the morning paper tucked under one arm, so I show Nicole the ad that caught my eye over breakfast. "I found your job this morning."

The hummingbird is back in force: Nicole begins worrying her bottom lip, and her fingers drum a concerto on the desk. "Did you respond to the ad?" In my imagination, Nicole's commission does a suicidal swan dive right out the window onto the roof of a taxicab parked on Madison Avenue. Happily, Mom's manner of death hasn't changed my macabre sense of humor. Sometimes you have to laugh at tragedy or else you'll cry.

"No. I wasn't sure if it was my thing. I've never been a personal assistant, and it's kind of far-"

"Oh. Of course. Well, I have another position – office manager – and they're interviewing this afternoon if you're free."

I wanted to go to the park and draw, but …  _groceries cost money_ , I think. So I force a smile. "Of course I'm free."

* * *

When I run home, the first thing I do is stuff a business suit into a garment bag and high heels into my purse. But when I go to print my resume, the printer won't work. A shredded cord pokes out from the wall, a testament to goblin handiwork.

" _ **LUCKY!**_ " My scream is high enough to call dogs. Boudica, moodier than ever, grumbles from her bed but doesn't move. Hidden voices around the living room giggle. I cradle my head and resolve to deal with them later.

* * *

So that's how I embark for my interview: with a garment bag slung over one shoulder and a memory stick for the clerk at UPS to print out my resume. I look at the rising sun and worry a piece of gum against my jaw, figuring I have two hours before my interview. I can do this.

Except the electricity at the UPS store at Penn Plaza blows the moment I walk in the door. I freeze on the threshold and back out the way I've come, suspicious, but I see no sign of goblins.

I arrive at the UPS on 23rd Street to find yellow tape and emergency personnel. ("Can ya believe it, miss? Not every day a piano falls through the ceiling. Crazy shit, right?")

The moment I approach the UPS on 8th Street, half a dozen squad cars roll up and a herd of cops charge into the building, guns drawn. I don't bother stopping, merely whip out my phone. "Nicole? You're not going to believe this … can you please email these people my resume? I'll explain later, I promise."

* * *

I have 45 minutes left, so I return to the subway and hop on the 2 going uptown. Yet between one moment and the next, somehow I'm suddenly on the N heading across the East River. Every time I try disembarking, I'm either squished by the crowd or the door shuts on me.

People say there's a moment in every city dweller's life when the reality of living in a garbage-infested concrete playground hits home, and the only logical response is to go pure bugshit. This is my moment. When the last door slams in my face, I completely lose any grip I've had on my internal safety valve. "This is unreal!  _ **Unreal!**_  What the hell is  _ **wrong**_  with this city?"

With a lurch, I realize I'm broadcasting my internal melt-down and, it being New York, everyone else in the car watches me with curiosity but no real alarm.

"I've been wondering that for twenty damn years," one woman opines with the sincere conviction of a religious convert.

"Amen!" shouts someone else.

I cradle my head again.

* * *

At the next stop, I'm able to fight my way off, and I don't stop running until I'm above ground. The first things I see are a Chinese restaurant, a laundromat belching steam, and a sign for Park Slope Law Offices. Oh, this is rich.

I groan and pull out my phone. "Nicole? Yeah, it's me. Listen, that interview in midtown? It's not going to work out. That job in Brooklyn wouldn't happen to be interviewing today, would it? Hypothetically speaking."

Nicole makes a sound that indicates she's about to give birth. "You're kidding me, right?" I envision Nicole's hands fluttering about again, like sparrows in love. "Fine, I'll call ahead and say you're coming. Please don't screw this up. Please. I'm serious."

"Promise. You're the greatest."

"Sarah, I'm serious. I'm begging."

"Pinky swear."

I hang up feeling relieved and very good about myself, but it's another block before I realize that I've left the garment bag on the train.

* * *

As a general rule, Brooklyn doesn't boast the skyscrapers that Manhattan does. My destination is a squat brick office building that looks like it hasn't been renovated since the Titanic sank. It sits on the corner of a busy intersection across from a church. A black fire escape, ugly and solid, marches down the front of the building and gives out above the grocer's on the first floor, where a sign declares the store is closed for renovations.

 _What a shit hole._  Park Slope is one of the ritziest areas of Brooklyn. There's a steak house and swanky-looking jeweler's across the street, next to a French bistro and an upscale salon. This building is a surprising eyesore in the midst of all these posh digs.

I pop off my sunglasses and enter the lobby with a sigh. This is going to be one of the more uncomfortable interviews of my life, I can tell. Here I am, looking like I'm on my way to a club, no resume, showing up to a job I had no interest in until five minutes ago, and only because I somehow got lost in a city I've known since I was five-years old. Goblins are involved in this, I just know it. If their king instigated it, I'm going to hurt him. I don't know how one hurts a god, not physically, anyway. I'll have to hit him in the ego. Shaving his head springs to mind.

Do you remember the ballroom scene in  _The Shining?_  All those glass light fixtures and brass trim? The lobby kind of looks like that, of course minus the blood and a postal Jack Nicholson. The silver-plated mirror on the wall has black spots and fingerprints, but otherwise the place looks surprisingly well cared for, if antiquated by eighty years.

There's only one elevator, standing alone in the center of the lobby and guarded by an iron door. You still see elevators like that in Paris apartment buildings. I don't think I've ever seen one in New York. I have to squeeze the brass buttons super hard with my thumb to make the elevator move, and it descends to the first floor with a boom that thunders throughout the whole building.

As the outer door opens, I'm unsurprised to see a retractable gate. I push it open and close it behind me. The floor is red carpet, the walls outlined in matching red and gold. It must have been very pretty, once, but the paint is flaking now. When I press the button for the 5th floor, the elevator jumps with a shudder that makes you think you're about to plummet into the basement.

The elevator doesn't chime upon arrival like modern elevators do, just groans to an unsteady halt. I squeeze my way past the gate and find myself in a long hallway. Several doors are boarded shut, but the light fixtures here are new, the bulbs very bright. I knock on the door of suite 505 and refuse to fidget. I spat out my gum a while ago, so now I settle for chewing on my tongue.

The door opens, and I'm nearly blinded by the light, unexpected in this old place. A male voice asks, "Yes?"

My hand has flown up to shield my eyes, so I still can't see the guy well. "Uh, I'm here for the interview?" Too late, I realize I've twisted the statement into a question, which makes me sound like an airhead sorority girl.

"For the job?"

"Yeah. Yes."

"This way, please."

He admits me into a waiting room overflowing with people. A rich Turkish rug overlays the hardwood floor. A grandfather clock (its face rimmed in brass and ivory, definitely a relic from the Victorian era)  _tick-tick-ticks_  away in the corner. Somewhere nearby, soft music plays. The only word that springs to mind is  _genteel_. I feel like I've stepped backwards to a time when ladies wore corsets and sipped tea with their pinkies in the air.

The folks sitting in the chairs are decidedly modern, though, and I see  _People_  magazine and the New York Times on the ornate coffee table. Are these all clients? I see men and women, old people and young, most in business suits, a few in their Sunday best, and a  ** _lot_  **of briefcases. My heart drops into my shoes.

The gentleman who answered the door is a thirty-something guy in a no-nonsense suit. He has a warm brown face with freckles, but the suit screams lawyer. I can't place his accent, but he sounds like my Social Psych professor in college, Dr. Yordan, who was Puerto Rican.

"Thanks for coming, everyone," the lawyer says by way of introduction. "We appreciate your interest. The interviews will be starting shortly but first, a few ground rules."

 _ **Everyone**  _is here for an interview? I don't have a briefcase, or a suit, or a resume. I'm wearing a leather jacket and jeans. I just bombed out of graduate school. What could I possibly offer these people? Can I leave, or would that be rude?

"First, we ask that you turn off all phones and portable devices. You might have discovered already that electricity in this building is very fickle." The lawyer smiles warmly, as if sharing a private joke. I'm relieved to see all the other candidates look just as confused as I feel. "Second, we ask that you stick to this room for the duration of your stay. This is an old building and the other tenants can be ... fussy about their privacy."

That sounds foreboding. The lawyer doesn't notice the awkward glances from the room, merely consults a clipboard and calls, "Diana Roberts and Rigoberto Gonzalez?" Two people stand up. She looks uncertain. He looks bored. The lawyer sends the guy down a small hallway and takes the woman into another room. She leaves within minutes. I guess it didn't go well.

Rather than wait for Rigoberto Gonzalez to return, the lawyer calls another name from the list and takes that person back into his office. It isn't until the lawyer is letting go his third person that Rigoberto comes back, and he looks  _ **pissed**_. He doesn't look at any of us, doesn't even thank the lawyer, just grabs his stuff and storms out, slamming the door behind him. Every picture frame on the wall rattles.

The lawyer doesn't flinch, as if he'd expected that. "Sarah Williams?"

"Present." I can't believe that just came out. Jesus Christ, Williams.

A smile dances on the edge of the lawyer's lips, but he manages to rein himself in. He doesn't give my clothes a second glance. This is a guy who's not easily rattled. "This way, please."

He shows me into the office. It's surprisingly big, with green wallpaper, dark furniture, and a matching sofa. The room screams money. "Why don't you take a seat? I'll be right back."

I nod, wary. After he leaves, I inspect the room. Oil landscapes and framed degrees cover the walls. The most surprising feature is a carved children's toy box, which is covered in dolls and stuffed animals. It's so out of place in this professional, almost stuffy room that I can't figure out why it'd be here.

The door suddenly opens, but fortunately I'm already seated before the desk. "Well!" the lawyer exclaims as he strides in. "Thanks for waiting. We're not used to high volumes of people. I'm Rafael, and I'm helping Ms. Foster today."

I reply, "Right." Because until this moment, I didn't even know the name of my potential employer or the business.

"Coffee?"

"I'm good, thank you."

"Great, let's get started. Did you bring your resume?"

How embarrassing. "No ... sorry. I had an accident on the way over here."  _An acute case of goblins. You know how it is._

"I see." From the tone in his voice, he clearly doesn't. "Did you hear about this position from the newspaper ad, or ...?"

"Nicole from the staffing agency sent me."

"Ah. What's your experience?"

Out in the waiting room, another person storms out, slamming the door behind them. The pictures in this office rattle against the wall.

Rafael doesn't even blink. "... as an assistant, I mean?"

The interview goes downhill from there. I'm not dressed the part, am completely unprepared, and have spent the last ten years living out of a suitcase. By this point, a third person has stormed out the front door - the slamming is unmistakable - and the soft music has gotten louder, to the point where it's getting obnoxious.

"Well, I think that's all the questions for today." Rafael adjusts his glasses and doesn't look me in the eye, and I know I've failed the interview. No loss. I didn't want this job anyway. "I'll walk you out."

"People sound plenty jumpy out there," I say lamely, feeling foolish.

"Interviewing tends to make folks nervous, I think."

"I'm guessing the music set them on edge."

Rafael is inches away from touching the doorknob, but my comment freezes him in his tracks. He turns and looks at me as if he's never seen me before. "What did you say?"

"Oh, sorry," I mumble. "I hope you weren't the one who picked the song. It's just ... so repetitive. I can see people getting annoyed by it. What?"

The lawyer hasn't stopped staring at me. In fact, he looks like he's finally  _ **seeing**  _me, if that makes sense. "You  ** _did_  **come for the assistant job, right?"

"Yes." I suddenly feel defensive and don't know why.

I can see the gears turning in Rafael's head. "Follow me." He leads me back into the waiting room, where everyone looks more anxious than ever. But instead of showing me the door, he points down the little hallway. "Down there. All the way down, first door on the right."

Incredulous, I stare at him a beat too long, then finally realize he's serious. I head down the hallway with my hands in my pockets, wondering when I can go home. This hallway must run the entire length of the building, and the old floorboards groan beneath my heels. I find the door easily; a rotating window perches atop it. You don't see those anymore. The window's ajar, and through it I hear the joyous trill of birds.

I knock once.

"Enter."

I step into a small office. It reminds me of my guidance counselor's, only Judy's office always looked like it had just survived a nuclear holocaust. This room is small but spotless. Bookshelves line the walls. A teapot brews on a hot plate next to a sink, which is next to the closet (instead of a door, it's covered by a floor-length black curtain). Now I know where the birdsong is coming from - there's a huge window of frosted glass overlooking the juniper trees outside. The window's open, letting in a cool, wafting breeze.

The office could be that of a college professor's: very quaint and comfortable. I'm vaguely reminded of the warm, earthy cave abode that C.S. Lewis dreamed up for his faun, Mr. Tumnus, when he invites Lucy Pevensie home for tea and cake.

There's a much older woman seated at the desk, a giant wooden monstrosity in the center of the room. The woman herself is neither small nor large but looks as if she could withstand a strong gale, as if she sprang directly from the earth itself. She's pale, with steel-blond hair that matches the flintiness in her eyes when she glances up from whatever she's writing. If she were a literary character, she would definitely be the White Witch.

"Close the door." When I do so, she indicates the chair before her desk. "Sit." There's a trace of London in her voice that indicates she hasn't been there in many years but hasn't yet lost its memory, the same way you can't quite shake a cold.

Having no other choice, I sit.

She frowns at me for a moment, as if I've already disappointed her, but then she sighs. "You're younger than all the others."

"I look young for my age," I respond. It's true; I still get carded in bars all the time. Mom looked young, too, or at least she appeared to. I don't know how much of her beauty was genetic and how much was surgery. I'll never know now. I'll never know a lot of things about her.

"Sometimes that can prove useful. Not so much others." The woman takes in every inch of me. "What's your name?"

"Sarah Williams."

"Ah, so you're the one the papers have been on about. The spoiled, forgotten love-child of Hollywood  _prima donna_  Linda Young, the one who's trying to break into the business riding on her mother's coat-tails." She smiles as I bristle. "I assume most of that is, how they say, bullshit?"

I'm trying not to grind my teeth. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes."

"Tea?"

"No."

The woman goes to the hot plate and gets herself a cup. With her back still to me, she says, "Tell me why you want to be my assistant."

"I'm smart, dependable, and can make problems disappear."

"Then you should have become a mob enforcer." I hear a cautious sip as she tests the tea. " ** _I_  **need an assistant - someone who is good with sums, who can articulate well, who can handle people, who is discrete. Most of all, someone who doesn't rattle easily. Your response didn't answer any of the questions in my head, which tells me you either don't have what it takes to be an assistant, or you do but don't know how to sell yourself."

"Salesmanship isn't everything," I counter.

"Salesmanship is  ** _everything_** ," she returns, as if she were lobbing a ball back at my head. "No one in this world cares about you or the worthless subjects you studied in school. They want to know what value you can provide them, how you can make their lives easier. Until you prove your worth to the world, it won't take notice of you, nor should it. To expect otherwise is arrogance."

"Rafael didn't say anything about salesmanship during our interview." I'm totally screwing any chance I have of getting this job, I know it, but I'm still inwardly seething at this woman's callous comments about my mother and me, so I'm not feeling particularly charitable.

"Why would Rafael send you to me if he already interviewed you?" She stirs honey into her tea and adds more hot water.

"I don't know. He sent me here after I told him about the music in your waiting room."

The woman puts down the teapot a little harder than she needs to. When she turns back to me, she's frowning again. Given her consistent sour expression, I'm surprised her face hasn't stuck that way. "You heard the music?"

"Shouldn't everyone?"

"No."

I stare very closely at her, uncertain if she's making fun of me. "I'm a musician. Music doesn't play favorites."

"There's much you don't know about the world, Ms. Williams." The woman smiles. It's not a very nice smile. "It has been a long time since someone noticed that music. How does an unimaginative wisp of a girl hear it, I wonder, or end up applying to be my assistant in the first place, hmm?"

I give a lazy shrug. "I have a funny habit of finding trouble. I'm like a pig with truffles, only instead of truffles, I find bullshit."

She's not amused. "If you consistently find trouble, Ms. Williams, you may wish to consider that the only recurring variable is  ** _you_**." She looks me over again. "Look at you. You're the spitting image of your mother, with a crumb of her talent, though they say she didn't get as far as she did in Hollywood because of  _ **that**._ "

In my mind's eye, I grab the teapot off the hotplate and break this bitch's face with it. But another part of me remembers every infuriating thing Jareth's ever said to me, and my hackles cool a bit. Life's not fair, but that's the way it is. So instead I respond with a smile that's a little too gleeful. "I can't imagine why you're having trouble finding help. You're a real charmer."

The woman narrows her flinty eyes at me. I've surprised her, somehow. I wish I knew how. "Are you comfortable with the nature of my work?"

"Rafael didn't explain what you do."

"At all?"

"I assumed you were a businesswoman."

"Hopeless. I'm a magician in service to the good city of New York."

I must not have heard her right. "Humans can do magic?"

"You're the first person to not assume I meant stage magic. That's somewhat impressive. And of course - haven't you read fairy tales?"

"Not in years. I thought only ... only, you know, faeries and gods could do that stuff."

"Don't be ridiculous."

I suddenly remember the man with the melted face. "What other beings are out there? Boogeymen? Vampires? Goblin Kings?" I don't mean that last one. It just ... slips out. As soon as I speak, I know I've said the wrong thing. Eyes flashing, she jumps from her chair as if a bee's stung her in the ass and pounds the desk with her fist.

"You're the one ... I can't believe this. Of all the people - why  _ **you?**  _You're young and self-centered and totally unaware of what's going on."

"Hey-!"

"What are you to him?" she demands.

"Who?"

"Who do you think, girl? The Goblin King, of course!" I should deny it, but it's too late: my mouth's already flopped open in shock, which gives me away better than a signed confession. "I knew it. Why should the Goblin King, one of the most powerful creatures this world will ever see, care a whit for your education?" Her eyes narrow to slits. "Are you his lover?"

"What? No!"

"Please. The only reason I can think of for the Goblin King to give a damn about a mortal is for one of two reasons: either he's sleeping with them, or plans to. His Majesty has too many things to do running his own world."

"You know the Goblin King?"

"Haven't you been listening? Of course. Just this morning, he told me to take on a certain young woman as my pupil, saying that she'd arrive on my doorstep shortly. And now here you are, though I can't imagine why he'd stick his neck out for a little shrew like you."

"I'm not sleeping with him!" I answer vehemently. Oh. Of course. I asked for wisdom, to know the things His Majesty knows, and he definitely knows magic. Of course he would procure a teacher for me. "... He's fulfilling a promise. A wish I made."

"You took a  ** _wish_  **from the Goblin King?" She makes it sound as if I've just confessed to multiple murders. "You took a ... you are by far the stupidest creature who ever lived, by God."

"Hey, I didn't cut a deal with him, alright? I won the wish from him fair and square. A boon from battle, he called it."

"Stupid  ** _and_  **delusional. No one defeats the Goblin King. Ever."

"I did. When I was fifteen. I ran his Labyrinth, and I beat him, and I pulled his world down."

The woman sinks back into her chair. For the first time since I've entered her office, she looks struck dumb. She stares at me for a long moment. The birds outside start singing again. Finally, she says, "So you're the Champion of the Labyrinth. I'd thought it all a silly story dreamed up by goblins."

I'm not above making a mocking face at her. Maybe I really am a child. The woman doesn't react at all, and then I realize how serious she is. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Muriel Foster."

"Well, Muriel, I can't say it's been a thrill meeting you, but I can say that this has, hands down, been the most interesting interview I've ever been on. Not that that's saying much."

She quirks a smile. It almost looks like her lips are fighting not to curl upwards, as if happiness would be an insult to their very being. "Likewise ... Sarah."

"Anyway, I'm gonna go. My war dance routine is tapped for today." I shake myself off and head for the door, then turn on the threshold. "His Majesty never told me he had a friend."

Muriel hasn't moved from her desk. I've seen her expression before on a neighbor's crotchety old cat, after the family brought home a rambunctious puppy. Her eyes are locked on mine. "I've always been under the impression that he doesn't have any."

"He has you."

"I'm not a friend." Annoyance seeps into her tone. "The Goblin King is my master. I belong to him just as surely as your shoes and jacket belong to you. And if you're wondering why he ordered me, of all people, to train you, it's because he understands the fine quality of my magic."

"How do you figure?"

"Because  ** _he_**  is the one who taught  _ **me**_." She doesn't smile, even as I blink stupidly at her. "Good-bye, Sarah."

* * *

Everyone in the waiting room turns to regard me curiously as I go. I'm the first person to leave without freaking out and slamming doors. Apparently that makes me an anomaly in this place.

I don't make it to the elevator before my phone rings. This startles me; I'd turned my phone off per Rafael's orders, yet somehow it's on again. I thought phones didn't work inside the building? I hesitatingly answer and hear Nicole, who raves about how amazing I am, that she's never gotten such a fast reply from a client, that I got the job.

"I did?" Even to my own ears, I sound dazed.

"Yeah! I knew you would, too! I told you, if you wore that blue suit today, you'd look like a million bucks. I'll send you the paperwork this afternoon, alright? Bye-eeee!" She hangs up without even asking if I want the job.

"Sarah?"

I turn. Rafael's waiting patiently in the hall behind me. "I got the job?" I ask, incredulous.

"Not really. Muriel thinks you're more suited to magic than answering phones. She's agreed to take you on as her apprentice."

 _What the hell?_  "I never asked to be an apprentice of anything. I came looking for work."

"Oh, if it's work you want, you needn't worry about  ** _that_**. Muriel will work you into the ground."

He acts like this is a side benefit. I feel like I'm losing my mind. "But she hates me."

Rafael smiles, revealing perfect teeth. "Don't let it trouble you."

Which is about as far from a denial as you can get.

* * *

_To be continued._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there were to be a cast for this story, it would look like this:
> 
> Jareth the Goblin King - David Bowie
> 
> Sarah Williams - Jennifer Connelly
> 
> Reimi Yamanaka - Keiko Agena
> 
> Shayna O'Neill - Amanda Seyfried
> 
> Cornelius (Jareth's butler) - Stephen Frye
> 
> The grandmotherly demon whom Jareth decapitates in Chapter 3 - Betty White
> 
> Ben Whitlock - Jensen Ackles
> 
> Linda Young - Demi Moore
> 
> Toby Williams - Dakota Goyo
> 
> Rafael - Don Omar
> 
> Muriel Foster - Vanessa Redgrave


	10. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As everyone knows, the best place to set a story is an asylum or a battlefield. There's something poetically tragic about people losing their heads.

_Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall._

-Proverbs 16:18

* * *

_Do you think of me?_

_Where am I now?_

_Baby, where do I sleep?_

_Feel so good but I'm old._

_2,000 years of chasing's taking its toll._

-Kings of Leon

* * *

As everyone knows, the best place to set a story is an asylum or a battlefield. There's something poetically tragic about people losing their heads.

Before the advent of modern psychiatry, the mentally ill were sequestered away in prisons and the basements of public buildings. They died lonely, ignoble deaths, often at the hands of other inmates, very curable diseases, or broken hearts. It was said that if you didn't enter mad, you soon would be.

And little wonder! Asylums are imposing, lonely places, even well into the 21st century when you can no longer get away with torturing lunatics. They remind me too much of my castle, madhouses. In the wintertime, the wind at home whistles through the cracks and rattles the eaves. The goblins hide when this happens. They're afraid of the dark, and they hate the cold. On such gloomy afternoons, I'll huddle before a fireplace and fall asleep with a goblin or two on my feet, only to awaken hours later with a crick in my neck and an ache in my chest.

This is why, whenever I am not fulfilling my sovereign duties, I'm fleeing my world for some place a little more hospitable, a little more fiery. SoHo has been fitting the bill rather nicely the last few decades. There's always something delicious to eat in SoHo, and new music to hear, and more often than not a new body to warm my bed. The human world is a strange place, but it's far sweeter than mine.

Well, for the most part. I have never liked the madhouses.

* * *

How do you measure time?

If you're human, you probably measure it in days. By the number of breakfasts you've had. By your life stages. High school, university, first job, first marriage, first child. A lot of firsts.

When you're immortal, it's difficult to measure firsts. Time stretches out so much that you become less picky with the importance of things, because they all become important to you. You're not limited to a century of life or less, so you can afford to be generous with your memories.

Which of my lovers was the most important to me? I cannot say. They all made me smile, all made my long stretch of life more bearable, all whispered to me in the dark of their dreams and joys. They've all brought me to the brink, too, that transcendental post-orgasmic state when you can't think and your heart (for just a moment) has stopped. The French have a phrase for it: _la petite mort_ , or the little death. Lying in my lovers' arms has been the closest I will ever come to dying. It's a bittersweet release.

That's another trait my lovers have shared: they've all died and laid rotting in the Earth. Most are past rotting by this point, have fallen away to dust and dreams. No one remembers their names anymore save me, the silent mourner adrift in a sea of time. It's an eternal vigil.

I tell myself that I will never take another human lover, because it hurts too much to lose them. I tell myself that I miss the sex, but since Sarah has reentered the picture, I've begun to wonder if I've actually loved them. Perhaps I am capable of love after all, and I try to dominate and control others out of a desperate need to control  _something_  in my long, immortal life. The constant loss is maddening.

I could take a new lover from among my fellow gods. Surely that wouldn't be difficult. I've done it before, and so have many other immortals. You've heard the stories of Zeus and his prowess among women, human and god alike, yes? (And, oh my, how his wife hates him. You can't imagine the rows.)

Yet I keep finding myself drawn back to the human world. There's something delicious about humans, with their singled-focused joys and wonderful stories.

* * *

When you visit Manhattan Psychiatric Center, a security guard must page you through the front door. First you'll be asked for your photo identification, which I always show them (actually an illusion and slight of hand, and the guard will nod at my imaginary licence that only he can see). The guard will scan his plastic badge and punch in a code on the keypad to open the door. All the doors in the facility are opened this way. No exceptions.

Then the guard will order you to stand in line and wait to check in. Visiting hours are 7 PM to 8 PM every day. That's it. It's much stricter than a regular hospital, and guests must be 16 or older. No babies allowed.  _Forget about the baby._

I always manage to skip the registration desk, though I typically walk through five locked doors rather than teleporting. It makes things less confusing for the humans on staff. Sometimes magick complicates things more than needed, and I don't like that. There's a great elegance in simplicity, in the beautiful movements of the body.

Today I wear a sweater and jeans, and my tousled hair is tied back from my face. I look like a very lean, very pale man, but just barely. Even magick can't hide the length of my teeth and the strange angles of my body. The guard has seen me a thousand times now, but he always shoots me a glance that one sees on a junkyard dog when it's deciding whether to bite. Humans, particularly the sensitive ones, tend not to like me.

On some level, far too deep for their consciousness to grasp, I smell of other dimensions, dreams, and desire. I will always set mortal creatures on edge, even if they can't articulate what exactly has them so ill at ease. I upset most mortal senses.

Every Tuesday at 7 PM I follow the same ritual: I appear on the tiny island on Manhattan's north end, and work my way past security, and go to the 7th floor. Then I walk three doors down from the lift and enter a room on the left. It's a private room, with a lonely bed and a solitary window.

And every Tuesday, I take the empty chair beside the bed, which holds a wizened old man, and I say, "Hello, Jimmy."

Jimmy, having not had any higher brain function for the better part of seven decades, never responds. His breathing apparatuses speak for him, wheezing and rattling and beeping.

But the soul is still here, and until the day when Jimmy dies, I will visit because of the affection I held for his brother. Many things have been said about the Goblin King (some good, some not so good), but let it never be said that I don't take care of what is mine.

* * *

Today when I enter the room, I see Jimmy sports a horrid new haircut. It looks like a nurse has taken a weed-whacker to his scalp.

"Oh, Jimmy," I murmur softly. "Poor lad. The girls will never want you now." The joke's already out of my mouth before I realize how terrible it is.

Jimmy was a handsome boy. It was clear, even when he was young enough to get away with playing tricks on his family, that he'd grow up to break many hearts. I can still see quite a bit of his brother in the mouth and ears. They always had generous mouths, the Ellingson family. Whenever Richard laughed, it was a very hungry laugh.

The spark of life is gone from Jimmy's mouth, of course. Now it's a slack, drooling line. I brush away the worst of the drool with a tissue and deposit it in the trash can beside the bed. There's nothing for it - Jimmy looks worse. It's been barely a month since my return to the human world, a month since the end of my 12-year disappearance as I frantically worked to repair the Underground. How is it possible for a human to age so rapidly in that time?

I take a shriveled, naked hand between both of my gloved hands. Liver spots mar the tissue-thin flesh. "I left you when you most needed an ally," I whisper. It's the closest I'll come to an apology. It doesn't matter, I suppose. Jimmy isn't going to respond, anyway.

One day, Sarah will be reduced to this. The thought turns the stomach. Perhaps it's for the best that she won't have me. Or perhaps it's all the more reason to take her back Underground sooner than later.

The discomfort in my stomach is getting worse. At first I think it's regret or grief, but then I realize it's hunger. The hunger moves up my spine and lodges itself behind my heart, and by now I've recognized it not as an emotion but a tingling of magick. Something is happening. Now all my senses are on full alert. This is a magick I've not experienced before, which makes it novel and exhilarating.

Someone is on the other end of this magick. I can feel another's life force tugging on mine, seeking me. The sensation is a distant precursor to sex, before you touch a person, before you kiss them. It's that moment when you spot them from across a crowded room and they ensnare you through the eyes. I feel a little drunk. My heart and groin ache.

On most days when I visit Jimmy, I'll read him the newspaper. Today is different. Once I feel this tingle, I can't concentrate enough to do anything, so I anxiously tap a foot and angrily stare at Jimmy as if he holds all the answers and is refusing to share. Fortunately, Jimmy is in no position to complain of my rudeness, and for the first time I'm glad.

Finally, after a half hour has passed and I'm about to leap out of my skin, I hear the lift outside chime. A nurse's confused voice echoes down the corridor.

"Are you sure it's this way?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely! I remember the way now. Thanks so much for your help." Manipulation and lies coated with a veneer of honey. I'd recognize Sarah's voice anywhere. I'm clutching the chair armrests as if driving nails. When Sarah enters the doorway, she stops dead at the sight of me. "Oh, my God."

I recover first. "No, just me. Won't you come in?"

Sarah stands firm in the doorway as if someone's hit her with a tire iron. Her hair is long and glossy black as always, like a raven's wing, and she wears a green wool pea coat, black slacks, and high-heeled shoes (the kind that always look lovely but painful). Her cheeks are ruddy from the cold outside. It's April, but winter has been stubbornly refusing to cede ground to spring these last few days.

The moment drags until I sigh with a bone-deep weariness. "Sarah, stop staring at me like I'm a monster and have a seat. Surely this isn't that difficult."

"What are you doing here?" she asks, ignoring my request completely.

I glance at Jimmy, still comatose. "Visiting a friend. And you?"

"I ..." She swallows and glances at the hall as if debating escape. "I felt funny, just a strange feeling, so I followed it to see where it lead."

"Funny? How so?"

"Just this ..." Unconsciously or not, Sarah rests both hands over her stomach. "... this emptiness you get when you're hungry, only it wasn't for food, and then it moved into my heart. It became a tug, so I followed it to see what it was. It lead me here."

"From where?"

Sarah won't look me in the face. "110th Street."

"Fascinating," I reply, and I truly am fascinated. "Sarah, sit. You make one skittish standing in the door like that."

She tucks her hair behind an ear and debates my request for a second before finally entering the room. There's an empty chair near mine, so she takes it and quickly inspects our surroundings. There's not much to look at. Jimmy doesn't have much left in this world. "Who's your friend?"

"This? This is James Ellingson, Jr., but everyone always called him Jimmy. He's a good lad. Was." I rest my cheek in one gloved palm, considering. "I suppose it's been a long time by human standards, but by mine, I was just talking with him yesterday."

Sarah can't pull her eyes from the wasted face. She looks haunted. "What happened to him?"

"Schizophrenia. Madness ran in his family, and the authorities coped with it the only way they knew."

"Lobotomy?"

"Yes."

"That's terrible," Sarah says softly. There's pain behind her eyes. I'm intrigued at her ability to feel so much on behalf of others.

I shrug. "It's what they knew. I must say, humans evolve at a tremendously fast rate. Things that appeared just or wise only fifty years ago are now looked upon as evil or archaic nowadays."

"My first year in grad school, we studied the history of psychotic disorders and psychiatric hospitals," Sarah murmurs, worrying her hands. "The things doctors did to patients back then would be grounds for criminal investigations today."

Exactly what I'd been pondering shortly before her arrival. There's surprise in Sarah's eyes when she looks at me again. I must be wearing a strange expression. I can't articulate what passes between us in that moment, but it tastes like mutual understanding.

"So," Sarah continues, "they lobotomized him."

"Yes. They thought to only cut a few nerves, but it didn't go well." Jimmy's head is slipping a bit, so I carefully adjust his pillow. "He was twenty-seven. Before he'd fallen ill, he was a solicitor - what you would call a lawyer. He was engaged to a charming girl named Nancy, but of course the lobotomy put a stop to that."

"How did you two, uh, meet?"

I smile at Sarah wanly. "His brother, Richard, was a lover of mine."

"Oh." The longest  _Oh_  I've ever heard, pregnant with thought. "I'm sorry, if this is personal-"

"It is," I assure her, "but there's nothing shameful about it." Sarah inspects me curiously again. "Have you never had a lover, Sarah?" My voice comes out so softly that it could be mistaken for seductive.

Fortunately, all my question succeeds at doing is making Sarah chuckle self-consciously. "I've had relationships. It's just ... weird hearing you talk about it so casually."

"Having a lover?"

"People don't talk like that."

"How do they talk?"

"They say they're dating someone, or dating around. Saying you have a lover is admitting to people that you're ... you're ..."

"Having sex," I say frankly.

Sarah laughs again. "Yeah."

"There's nothing shameful about taking a lover, Precious."

"I guess," she says, placating me. Her body language says otherwise. "So what happened after the lobotomy?"

"The family was never the same after that. Jimmy was their darling prince. Richard was devastated." I drift off for a moment, remembering. "... he and I parted ways soon after, but we did so on good terms. The whole family is gone now. Jimmy has no one left, so I visit him."

"You and Jimmy must have been close."

"Hardly. He barely tolerated me. I think he alone sensed something between his brother and me. The parents were oblivious. Jimmy threatened to brain me once or twice."

"Would he have been able to?"

My grin is just a touch malicious. "He could have tried. It wouldn't have ended well for him. In any case, he never did. But Richard was wild about him. It's a cruel thing to love a person so dearly when they despise what you are, but Richard loved Jimmy anyway. Not everyone went to university back then, but Richard did because Jimmy had, and anything his elder brother did, Richard had to do. He read music. He was a  ** _wonderful_  **violinist. Paganini would have wept to hear him play."

I sigh and stare at Jimmy's slack face. "Of course, the parents were horrified their boy had become a musician. The violin on weekends was one thing. Playing at neighbourhood parties? Delightful, impressive. But to be a professional musician, a starving artist, a ragamuffin? Unacceptable. They threatened to throw him out."

"... Did they?"

"Richard was unwelcome in the home for a year, but that didn't stop his studies. He'd received a scholarship, and a fond professor got him additional support from the university. After a while, his parents relented. They missed their boy too much, as did Jimmy, who by then was having his fits. Within another six months, he was institutionalized for the first of many times."

I've been staring at Jimmy's wasted face so long that when I look back at Sarah, I'm surprised to see my expression mirrored in her face. "You visit someone who hated you?" she asks, puzzled.

"He meant the world to Richard, and he's gone now." Sarah's expression softens, and a small part of me feels relieved that she understands. Why should a king crave acceptance from anyone, let alone a former enemy? I won't say. It's humiliating. But the kindness in Sarah's face makes me, for a wild moment, want to kiss her feet. "Such is life. How is the darling Muriel faring?"

Sarah darkens like a storm cloud. "Why did you set me up with that awful woman?"

"You wished for it, Precious."

"Bullshit. I didn't wish for  _ **this**_. The woman's an asshole."

I tut. "Such language. You'd make a nun's ears bleed."

"Goblin King, I wished for wisdom! All Muriel does is criticize me!"

Sarah is sitting closer to me than she's realized. She jumps a little when I touch her hand. "Jareth," I insist. She's still riding high on anger, and she blinks at me in confusion. "Call me Jareth and I will answer whatever questions you have." She thinks it's a joke, I can tell. "I promise, Sarah."

She looks at me askance. "Since when do  ** _you_  **make promises?"

"Since now."

She doesn't trust me, I can tell. "Alright ... Jareth." I remove my hand from hers and recline back in my chair. Sarah relaxes considerably after that. "Why did you set me up with Muriel? And don't say it's because I wished for it. You know I wouldn't have chosen someone that nasty for a teacher."

"No, you wouldn't have, but it's what you needed."

My presumption obviously nettles her. "How do you figure?"

I lace my hands over my stomach, considering. "Muriel is brilliant at what she does. Oh, I know you don't see it, not yet, but she is. She's also the only person I'd entrust with the keys to my kingdom. Her loyalty is beyond question. You'll come to appreciate her methods in the end, of that I'm certain."

"She's rude."

"Oh, do you think so? She's actually quite a sensitive spirit."

Sarah laughs bitterly. "Do you know what Muriel said to me today? She said I was a brainless idiot and it was a good thing I dropped out of grad school, because it would have been criminal to let me take care of patients. She also said it's too bad my dad didn't have a family business he could push me into, because it's clear I sure as heck wouldn't be able to get a job anywhere else."

"Not true.  ** _She_  **hired you."

"Because you made her hire me!"

"That part is true," I admit.

Sarah throws up her hands. "Goblin-! Agh,  ** _Jareth!_  **I think you're being obtuse on purpose!"

"Sarah, I shall make a deal with you," I say with all sincerity, but Sarah only grimaces in response. "I promise that you will get the answers you seek on this in time, but first you must make an effort with Muriel. She's a wonderful magician and will teach you what you need. If you give it your best effort and you still hate it, then leave."

She stares at me. "Really?"

"Of course. You're your own keeper." _Because you wouldn't let me be yours. Haven't we been over this a million times before?_  Bitterness and grief bubbling on my tongue. Swallow it down and smile. Smiles can be interpreted so many ways.

"So I could leave now if I wanted?"

I stare at Sarah for a long time. "... Will you?"

She sighs. "No. I don't want to die like everyone else, clueless about the true nature of things. And you gave me a rare opportunity."

"Do you feel indebted to me?" Indebtedness is certainly a card I can play.

"I don't know," she mutters. "You did fulfill your end of a bargain. I can't just walk away."

"Yes. Tell me more about how you found me today."  _Please?_  I cock my head at her in a way I know will both annoy her as well as tug on the heartstrings.

My ploy works. Sarah looks disgruntled. "I don't know. I just followed this feeling I had, and it brought me here."

"To me," I insist.

"To this room," Sarah retorts. "You just happened to be here."

I grin toothily. "There are no 'just so happens', Sarah." She looks away from me. I delicately reach under her chin and gently, gently turn her face back to mine. She looks annoyed but, dammit, still not a trace of fear. "All humans have magick, Precious. Most dismiss it as the stuff of fairy tales, but all have the potential to channel it. One of the most basic forms it takes is connecting with someone else. It's a skill that proves itself useful, when a family member is missing and needs to be found."

"But you weren't lost," she says.

"Don't be so sure. My visits here always depress me. Times like these, it's nice to have company."

Sarah gently disengages from me, but she holds my hand in hers as if uncertain what to do with it. "How can I use magick if I don't know what I'm doing?"

"Instinct. How does a flock of geese know to fly south for the winter?" I like the way Sarah holds my hand, as if I'm a precious thing. "And I think there's something unique about our own personal connection, so I'm not surprised you sensed me nearby."

"Our dreams," Sarah murmurs. "They're not just dreams, are they?"

"I think not. You named me and my kingdom equal to you and yours." I deftly twist my hand, delicately taking Sarah's in mine, and kiss the back of it with a smile. Sarah doesn't resist, but she still looks solemn. "I will permit you another question. You asked terrible questions the other week at brunch."

"Did I?" she asks faintly.

"You asked me nothing about my history even as I asked all sorts of questions about yours." I rub the back of her palm with my thumb, grinning. "Quid pro quo, yes or no?"

She cocks her head, debating. "Alright. So, what are you?"

"Ha! You've asked that before."

"I have, but I didn't get a real answer. You said humans have called your kind faeries, djinn, gods. So what  ** _are_  **you? You, specifically."

I've interlaced my fingers with Sarah's and begun to inspect her fingernails. The ends are chewed. She's a biter. "I? I'm a god, born of a distant star when this galaxy was in its infancy. I remember the explosion that preceded its creation. Now I serve as Goblin King, where I take unwanted children and guard human dreams."

"I thought you  _ **offered**  _people their dreams."

"One and the same. When you know a person's dreams, you can better tempt them. It proves useful for dealing with people who wish away children. At my core, though, I have always been a fertility god."

Sarah laughs. "Excuse me?"

She tries to pull back her hand, as if I've said something distasteful, but I refuse to let go. "It's true," I tell her. I'm sure my self-pleasure is evident in my face.

"You make it sound like an excuse."

"For what?"

"For-" Sarah laughs again. "-for being ... you know."

"I don't know. Tell me."

"You act like you'll screw anything that moves."

I feel vaguely slighted by this statement, and it's difficult to offend me. "Excuse me. I have standards." Sarah finally retrieves her hand, and I use mine to cradle my chin as I inspect her. "Does it offend you that I enjoy sex? It's part of my job."

"I think a lot of guys would use that excuse," Sarah counters.

"Well, I can't speak for them," I reply, "but for me it literally  ** _is_  **my job. Every god has a function. Mine is to bring forth new life. Even now, as Goblin King, I serve to protect children ... and when there were no children, or a people had suffered terrible losses in war or the food supply, I would be called upon to inspire the crops or the people to bear fruit."

"'Inspire'. What does that mean? Sleeping with the women?"

"Often." I nearly smile at the memories, but I stop myself just in time.

"That's crude."

"Why?" I'm genuinely curious.

"Because it's ... you can't just go around sleeping with people."

"Why?"

"Because you can't."

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody. Society. You just don't do that."

"Modern society has hidden away something very natural. Instead of revering sex as the force it is, you've degraded it, shamed it, made it inaccessible, and as a result of that you have widespread depression and perversions like rape." I count each of these offenses on my fingers as I speak, and my voice has taken on a lilt as if singing a song. Sarah aggravates me with her judgments, so my long-suffering temper has started to fray. Tuesdays are never good days to begin with for me.

"So people would call upon you to sleep with them so they could have kids." Sarah is trying to understand my point of view. Judging from her harried expression, she's failing miserably.

"Yes," I reply, and this time I do smile, with a touch of mockery. "You must understand that things have changed a great deal. The last two centuries have seen more changes than the last ten thousand years. Until recently, the population on this planet never exceeded a million people. Fertility was of the utmost concern. New children, new sources of food, new advances in art and music, ... all these things need a helping hand, so to speak. A fertility god can help most wondrously with that."

"I have a hard time following this."

"When done with disregard for another, yes, sex is destructive or traumatic - much like what your mother did when she cheated on your father and abandoned your family." Sarah bristles. "What your mother did was despicable. But the problem was her lack of empathy and loyalty, not the sex."

Sarah is quiet for a long time. Jimmy's breathing machines continue to rattle and wheeze and beep. My Champion and I sit side by side, saying nothing. Truth be told, I enjoy sitting quietly in her presence, even if she's not afraid of me. The lack of fear is both an annoyance and a novelty. After several minutes lost in thought, Sarah finally says, "What would people do, when they called upon you?"

"How's that?"

"You know. Say a people wanted to call upon your power. What happened?"

"They had magicians to call upon me."

"Like placing a long-distance phone call."

I can't help my grin. "People lived closer to nature back then, so it wasn't quite so long-distance. But yes."

"And then what?"

"It depended upon the people, and the situation. I was quite popular in ancient Ireland."

"Oh!" Sarah says in recognition. "The Horned God!"

I'm delighted. "Ah, so you've heard of me?"

Sarah's entire demeanour has come alive. Her body turns toward me as she begins to speak animatedly with her hands. "Of course. I loved Jung. He believed the Horned God was a guardian between worlds and a source of masculine power - the healthy kind. Everybody carries archetypal aspects within themselves, you know? And when a person, male or female, didn't integrate the Horned God in a healthy way, you'd have deviant behaviour like sexual violence."

I hum contentedly to myself. "What you once called myths you've now integrated into your scientific study of the human mind. How I love your species."

"So what happened in ancient Ireland, then, when people called upon you?" Sarah no longer sounds so cynical. Sarah the Scientist.

I'm thoughtful. How to explain this to someone so out of touch with her own history? "Ah ... a long time ago, thousands of years before Saint Patrick brought his dead god on a cross, the Irish religion concerned itself first and foremost with fertility. The Druids built enormous stone temples aligned with the movement of the sun. And of course, they held fertility rites for crops and children."

I stretch my legs and sigh. "There is a rite that has not been practiced in many centuries. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I saw one performed. The people would build up a great fire, and there would be feasting and merry-making. All the young women would adorn each other's hair and make themselves beautiful, and they would compete for the title of Goddess. Each woman would dance, and the woman who danced the most passionately and who won the crowd's heart would be declared the winner."

"And then what?"

"And then she would claim her prize: a god for a goddess."  _Ah, me, the memories._  "A respected elder woman would paint the winner's face, cover her with a cloak of feathers and send her into a cave, deep beneath the earth. There she would find a chamber resembling a tomb, as they buried people back then, only this chamber was lit with candles and instead of a corpse in a burial shroud, she'd find a dead god lying in repose waiting to be resurrected. Often the god was played by a man who'd won his own competition among the other men, and he'd be dressed as a fierce warrior. Some people dressed their gods as a sun deity. Every tribe had its own customs.

"And sometimes," I say, "if the people had a magician or two, the god was a real one. A deity called down and made flesh, instead of a local man playing a role. Most people had sacred death masks made for this rite, a frightening-looking thing with a raging, red mouth and great horns protruding from the head, carved of wood and framed in animal fur or feathers. It was very impressive. So I'd lay there until the winner entered the tomb and, ah, brought me back to life. I'm sure you can deduce how she accomplished this."

From the way Sarah's blushed and laughed, she has. "And then?"

"Meanwhile, in the world above, the remaining women would take their pick of the men, and everyone would go off into the woods and have their own celebration. It was wonderful. No one would get any work done for days."

"Did this help people have kids?"

I mull that over. "They certainly thought so. Keep in mind, ritualized forms of sex meant society actively encouraged love-making, which meant there was more of it. There was no shame. If anything, people saw it as a duty so sacred that even their gods wanted to help them. It meant a new generation, and the lack of sexual frustration cut down on conflicts and war."

Sometime during my story, Sarah has turned completely to inspect me, as if she's never seen me before. "It sounds beautiful."

"It was," I reply with a tinge of wistfulness.

"You must have had a lot of children running around."

I chuckle ruefully. "I did. The last time I was called to Ireland for such a rite was at least fifteen hundred years ago, yet until the 1600's, there remained whole villages in County Meath where it was said the people had the queerest mismatched eyes. The English wiped most of them out, and the Famine took the rest. My Irish bloodlines are all gone now."

"I'm sorry," Sarah says quietly.

I regard her curiously. So strange to hear someone apologize so much for things over which they have no control. I never apologize for anything, even when I'm the cause. "What for?"

"It's sad. Those were your kids, or your grand-kids many times over."

"It's tragic," I agree, "but I had no emotional connection to them, I'm afraid. It takes more than seed to make a father. I never raised any of the children I sired. I had a particular job to do, and I did it."  _With gusto,_  says the look on Sarah's face. I won't deny that.

"You miss it," she says. It's not a question.

Mine is a bitter laugh. "The sacredness humans held for every aspect of their lives? Oh, yes."

At that moment, a nurse enters the room to say in an annoyed tone that visiting hours are over and that it's past time we left, so we do. Jimmy doesn't protest. He never does.

* * *

It's still light outside with the onset of spring. Sarah looks momentarily perplexed when I offer her my elbow, and I remember that the custom is outdated, but she takes my arm before I can retract it. It's very comfortable, having her touch me like this. As we reach her car, she disengages to unlock the doors, then looks me over. "Need a lift?"

"That would be lovely, thank you." I don't ride often in cars, but every opportunity to do so is a treat. Such curious contraptions, automobiles.

We pull onto the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. The passenger-side window is down and I'm riding along with my head half out of it, the wind in my hair and my eyes hungrily gobbling up the sight of Manhattan's skyline.

"Where do you need to be dropped off, Your Majesty?" Sarah asks.

"Jareth." I shut my eyes against the harsh glare of the electric lights, retreat into my imagination, where there's always candlelight and stars. The human world is a sweet one, but sometimes it's discombobulating. The wind feels wonderful against my skin, as if I'm flying.

"What?" Sarah is confused.

"Call me Jareth, Sarah." Her name tastes wonderful in my mouth, like an invocation and a promise.

"Oh. Yes. Well, where can I drop you off ... Jareth?" My name sounds awkward when she speaks, a flat tune on a faulty instrument. In time, Precious. In time.

"Anywhere. It doesn't matter."

* * *

Parking is atrocious in Brooklyn, so Sarah has to park several blocks from Muriel's house. I'm about to take my leave of her for the night, but I notice a possessed woman wandering the opposite side of the boulevard, and a vampire watches us from a neighbouring stoop. It's a good vampire, a member of a clan I'm friendly with, but still. Sarah hasn't a clue. So instead of leaving, I link arms with her again and escort her down the street. She looks surprised at me but doesn't protest. I consider that a victory.

"So, what does a fertility god do in the modern world?" Sarah asks.

I blink at her. "How do you mean?"

"People aren't staging ritualized orgies anymore. I mean, maybe they are, but they're not calling down gods for them, right?"

"In some places, they still do, and it's desperately needed. Mortals suffer greatly in this area."

"Impotence," Sarah says in agreement.

"Yes. And other areas."

"Like?"

"Fear of rejection. Fear of commitment. Fear of opening oneself up to a partner. Homophobia. Self-loathing. Performance anxiety. Jealousy. As you will."

"Sex can help with this?"

"It's always fascinated me that modern human societies tend to focus on the destructive aspects of sex without giving equal airtime to the healing aspects," I muse aloud. "In answer to your question, yes."

"So, like, how? Obviously the answer isn't Viagra. Drugs don't help the emotional stuff."

I feel a smile uncurl itself across my face and stretch like a cat. "Curious, are we?"

"Human psychology was my field of specialty," Sarah says defensively. "What you're saying is interesting."

I consider that for a moment. "It varies by the person. I'm sure you're aware, for example, of the way women's sexuality has been repressed, even today. Repressed, controlled, punished. You talk with your girlfriends, yes? Have any of them ever confided in you that they've never had an orgasm with a partner?"

Sarah flinches. Actually flinches. How curious.

"Sarah?"

"What?"

"Sarah, have  ** _you_  **ever-?"

"That's none of your business."

"You brought it up."

"I'm sorry I did."

"Well, have you?"

Sarah looks at me, annoyed, and pulls away, continuing on down the street at my side but with her hands stuffed in her pockets. Her body language is answer enough, but after a beat Sarah says, "No. Never with a partner. And you can wipe that grin off your face."

"I'm not grinning."

"You just got this crazy gleam in your eye as if you'd thought,  ** _CHALLENGE ACCEPTED_** , in big neon lights. The answer is no."

In fairness, I do have a very expressive face that doesn't do a good job of hiding my thoughts, so Sarah's probably got me there. "I didn't ask anything."

"You're thinking it."

"I've already proven time and again that I never, ever turn down a request for help from you, if you were to ask me for it.  ** _If_  **you were to ask, and only then. You set that boundary quite well when you so happily defeated me." Sarah's gait loosens up a bit. At any rate, she's walking less stiffly. "Your problem is you don't trust people."

Sarah sizes me up. "I don't trust  _ **you**_. I feel like we're peas in a pod and co-collaborators in a big game I'm just beginning to understand, and you're so openly manipulative sometimes that it's easy for me to get a bead on what you're doing. I trust that you're trying to do what you feel is best for me, but I also think you're selfish and would 'help' me as long as you'd get something out of it."

I laugh. It's the sort of laugh a man makes when an arrow has struck true, but it would be a tremendous loss of face to admit it. I can't deny anything Sarah's said, and I won't even try. "Well played."

"Can I ask you something? Quid pro quo."

"Alright." I can always lie if I need to.

"If you had the opportunity to take me back Underground right now, whether I wanted to go or not, would you do it?"

As if operating on the same nervous system, we stop and stare at each other. A couple bumps into us from behind and maneuvers around us grumbling. It's a beautiful night out. The moon hangs heavy in the sky like a nine-month belly, and the stars wink cheekily from their black velvet berths. Their light can't hold a candle to the brilliance of Sarah's eyes.

"In a heartbeat," I reply, very honestly. "But I would never hurt you," I add, just as honestly.

Sarah sighs as she turns away, sighs as she says, "That's not good enough." We've reached the black iron gate guarding the front of Muriel's house. A neighbour's dog barks. One of Muriel's cats growls from its hiding place in the bushes. Sarah pushes on the gate and walks into the garden. I remain on the sidewalk, rubbing the black iron thoughtfully with my gloved hands.

As she mounts the front steps, I call out, "Sarah." She turns, curiosity radiating off her in waves. I can feel her eyes burning in the darkness. "As long as you're queen-elect of the Labyrinth, you will have no peace until you return, just as I will have no peace until we have you. I've tried to be generous, but if you won't come of your own accord, I swear on all the worlds I will find a way to drag you home myself."

Sarah sniffs. "You're going to be waiting a long time, Your Majesty." Then she goes inside, locking the door firmly behind her, shutting me out, and I'm left alone and angry in the dark with my thoughts.

* * *

Around this time I attend a party at the home of a neighbour, a fae lord named Tiberius.

If I had the luxury of a friend, Tiberius would be one of mine. He's young by my standards, perhaps two-thousand years old. Old enough to remember the ancient Irish fertility rites, and to have participated in a fair number of them. The only thing that finally chased him out of Ireland was the English, and he now resides entirely Underground. The fae have a poor relationship with most human tribes. Too much bad blood and betrayal there, most of it from the humans. The fae take loyalty oaths too seriously to break them.

Strictly speaking, they are not gods, though many human cultures have mistaken them for such. The fae are a mortal race with a finite lifespan and their own customs, just like humans, and they value artistry above most everything else. Their claim to fame in the old days was kidnapping beautiful youths, lovely lasses, skilled artisans, and brave warriors. So the fae share some characteristics with gods such as myself: neither race has ever been known for playing fair.

There's a human author who's famous for his relationship with the fae, an Englishman named J.R.R. Tolkien, only he called them elves. Tolkien was one of the few to bother learning fae languages and to actually write them down in his books. Of course, humans fancy he made them all up. Truth is stranger than fiction.

Tiberius' regnal name is Cirden, though his birth name is Cathasach. Like all fae, he also holds a secret name known only to himself. When he reached maturity, he did as all fae of noble stock did: went away to study the art of war with the best warriors, and at that time, that meant studying with the Romans. He liked this so much that he kept the name they bestowed upon him. For all formal matters of state, he's known as Lord Cirden of the Wild Wood, but the rest of the time, he's merely Tiberius.

He's a good man, Tiberius. He has a head for strategy and a heart for battle. I don't trust him as much as I trust Muriel, but I trust him more than most other people, and that says something.

You might think Tiberius a lout, the fae equivalent of a drunken footballer. In fact, Tiberius prides himself on his manners and sense of culture. His favourite place to visit whenever he ventures Above is Shanghai, renowned for its fashion and wealth. In the last century, when China was still under the thumb of England, you would have found Tiberius on the wide boulevards of Paris, where during the day he'd shop and, at night, play piano with the city's highest-paid courtesans.

That being said, Tiberius often is drunk. It's a curious fact that his birth name, Cathasach, means "the vigilant one" in ancient Irish. Clearly, the Fates have a sense of humour.

When I appear in Tiberius' courtyard astride my horse (a great black charger named Thunder), liveried footmen rush to greet me. Tiberius' servants are the best. He's trained them well. I sweep down from my horse, and a butler leads me through the massive doors and into the main hall.

Tiberius also throws the best galas. At the moment, every important person on Earth and under it is here: some of them fae, some of them gods, even a few humans. I spot a New York Times bestselling author, a young man who's been lauded as "the next Tolkien", and of course the irony is that, like Tolkien, he's chummy with the very same fae he writes about. (Apparently, the fae are flattered by this.)

When I enter the hall, the butler calls, "His Majesty the Goblin King, Lord of the Southern Marshes, Lesser Emperor of the Lower Lands, Guardian to the Nightmare Realms, and High Sovereign of the Labyrinth."

The temperature in the hall drops several degrees as everyone frantically bows or curtsies. For my part, I give a little nod but look bored, if regal. I'm quite a showstopper, if I do say so myself. You can thank Cornelius for handling my wardrobe. I wear a pinstriped suit, the kind you'd find at Fashion Week in New York. You can't expect gods and fae to ignore modern fashion trends, after all. I also sport grey silk gloves and glasses with round, dark blue lenses, and a silver watch hangs from my waistcoat on a filigreed chain.

I look outrageous, but as a rule, I dislike doing things by halves. Just ask Sarah.

"Your Majesty!" Tiberius booms, hurrying forward. He also wears the sort of stylish clothes you'd find fashioned by Gucci, not goblins, and his bow is far lower than mine, acknowledging my authority. "Please, come in, come in!"

The stiffness in the hall disintegrates, and everyone returns to their chatter, though they watch me from the corner of their eyes the way a flock of blue jays watches a cat.

Tiberius links arms with me and sweeps me into the hall. "I am  ** _so_  **glad to see you, Jareth," he whispers conspiratorially in my ear. "I want to hear all the news. Your kingdom regrown in the blink of an eye! I need to know how you did that!"

"No secret to it, just behead a demon and spend a week recuperating in bed," I retort.

"It wasn't a big rift, was it?" he asks hungrily.

"It was big enough," I concede.

Tiberius laughs uproariously at this. "You're insane. You always were the toughest bastard I ever knew. That's why the Saracens loved you. Fancy a beer?"

I accept the drink from him, as if I had a choice. "Beer, at a formal mixer? Always classy, Tiberius."

He winks. "I've learned a lot from the humans. Come, see my new additions."

Tiberius' "additions" include a human girlfriend from Buenos Aires and a baby grand piano. Tiberius always had a soft spot for women and music. The girlfriend is darling - an accomplished model and equestrienne named Filomena who was recently on the cover of  _Essence_. Tiberius is obviously smitten with her and failing utterly at hiding it. I should make a note to tease him mercilessly about it later. He hates looking anything but unshakable.

"When's the wedding?" I mouth to him.

"Next year," he answers, sounding a little drunker than I thought he was. "I've already asked and she's already said yes. But tell me about this rift. How did a pretty boy like you take on a rift and live to tell the tale? Wait, don't tell me, you're immortal. I know, I know. Well, we can't all be gods."

We leave the noise of the main hall for the added privacy of a grotto. The first one I find is occupied by a man and a woman who are going to need a private room very shortly. Out of a manly sense of camaraderie, I find myself steering my drunken lord away from them and down the hall, where I deposit him in an empty room occupied by a single desk and a bookshelf. It looks like the butler's office.

"Oh, good," Tiberius says, obviously not recognizing this place. "Is this the wine cellar?"

"Hardly." I shut the door and prop Tiberius on a sofa. "Try not to vomit on the couch. It looks expensive."

"Are you insinuating I don't know how to hold my drink?"

"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm telling you outright."

"Prig," he accuses me gleefully. "So tell me how you rebuilt the Underground."

I deposit myself in the chair behind the desk and loll one leg over an armchair. "Nothing to tell, truly. I closed the rift without destroying myself or blowing up the Underground, and here I am today, getting drunk with you."

"You're not trying hard enough. Have more beer." He pulls out of thin air two bottles of dark Belgian ale, caps off and gullets filled with an orange wedge. One of the bottles floats into my hand, and Tiberius raises his bottle in a toast. "May we never regret this."

I toast him back. "God save the king."

"Isn't that  _ **my**  _line?"

"Drink your beer."

One beer becomes two, and two becomes three, and after that we stop counting. At least, I stop counting. Tiberius has a head start on me. I recall saying, sometime after Beer #3, "Tell me how you convinced a lovely woman like Filomena to marry your ugly mug." A royal title affords me a louder mouth when I'm drinking.

"Alas, I cannot say, Your Majesty. 'Tis a shameful, hedonistic tale."

"With an introduction like that, I insist you tell your tale, sirrah."

"Haha! Well. I was backstage at a fashion show in Buenos Aires. I heard a woman crying in the bathroom and went to investigate. Of course, I couldn't go in, because it was the Ladies'. I called and convinced her to come out, and out comes this ... this radiant goddess. She was crying because she'd broken the heel on her shoe and tripped onstage. It was humiliating, all the photographers had gotten a picture of it and it was sure to appear in the papers the next day. Anyway, I barely heard all this, because I was staring at the lovely vision before me." Tiberius plays with his beer bottle and gazes into the distance. Even he is aware that he's reached his limit. "I insisted on taking her to dinner to make up for the shoe, and she agreed."

"You didn't have to trick her? Was she inebriated?"

"Some of us," Tiberius says loftily, "can get by on our charm, I'll have you know."

"Have I met any of these people?"

"I can assure Your Majesty that you won't find any in the mirror."

"Now that's just low."

Tiberius snickers, pleased with himself, but quickly adopts a serious expression. It looks out of place on his face. "And pray, tell me how fares the Labyrinth."

I focus very intently on the rim of my glass. "Very well."

"You lie," Tiberius hisses with malicious glee. "What is amiss? You need a man, that's what. Or a woman. Someone who will laugh at your stupid jokes, besides your goblins. Someone with whom you can while away the hours."

I put down my drink completely and fold my hands in my lap. "You seem to be very aware of what my kingdom and I need."

Tiberius waves a hand and sloppily shakes his head. One would think he's dismissing me, but I recognize embarrassment and backpedaling when I see it. "I fear for Your Majesty's well-being. You've always been so isolated. Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

This is true.

"Gwyneth has been asking for you," he adds, as if carelessly.

I grimace. "No."

"But she's a delightful-"

" ** _No_** , Cathasach."

"Oh, dear, you're unleashing my childhood name. It appears I've seriously breached decorum." Tiberius yawns and sways slightly as he bounces up from his seat. He runs a finger along the books on the shelves, bored and tired: never a good combination for him. "She would be a pleasant companion for you, though," he murmurs softly, like a lover in my ear. "You deserve some pleasantness. I say this as a dear friend who cares for you very much, Jareth. You can't hide forever at the heart of your Labyrinth."

"I'm hardly hiding, Tiberius, and in any case, the heart of my Labyrinth lies elsewhere."

He turns to me with a raised brow. "Was that a riddle? Am I to guess?"

My face, carefully shuttered. "No."

Tiberius looks smug as he interlaces his arm with mine and drags me close. "You always were an enigma. It's part of your charm. Come, escort me back to the hall. The floor is misbehaving a bit."

We return to the party, where the guests continue to avoid me, the Bogeyman. Little matter; my attention's scattered, as if I exist in multiple worlds. The musicians play on, never stopping even once. Dancers, dancers everywhere, covered in lace and velvet. Hundreds of candles burning in their sconces, wax dripping onto the brick, mirrors and silver and glitter. Time stops, or perhaps it leaps forward. I cannot say.

I take my leave just before the dawn - that strange, confusing time when the shadows have not yet fully receded and the land still belongs to the stuff of nightmares. Many other guests have already left, or dance drunkenly in the hall or the garden or, in at least two instances, the fountain. As the servants fetch my horse, Tiberius accompanies me to the door, his fiancée on one arm as he makes exaggerated gestures with the other.

Filomena glows in the pale yellow light outside, silently laughing at Tiberius' jokes. Tiberius was right: she is exquisite.

My throat aches. I'm very tired.

Tiberius is speaking. "It's been a pleasure and a privilege, Your Majesty. I hope you'll attend the wedding."

"Yes, please," Filomena says. "Tibby speaks the world of you."

"Tibby?" Even I can hear the smirk in my voice.

Tiberius flushes. "Yes, yes. We shall send you an invitation shortly. And I'll ensure you're seated next to Gwyneth." He winks, not a little cruelly.

* * *

I would not reflect much upon this period if it were not for a terrible thing.

Shortly after Sarah's latest rejection, and Tiberius' party, a fissure forms in the rocks to the west of my castle. Didymus spots it one day during a reconnaissance mission. I set out for it immediately and discover it's not far from the first rift we discovered weeks earlier, the one that nearly destroyed me.

I spy on the rift from a safe distance, assessing it, weighing it in my mind, until I decide that there's no danger here. The rift runs a great length, churning up the air between one clump of rocks and the edges of the forest, but it cuts a shallow swath in time and space. It hasn't yet opened a door to other dimensions, which is a relief.

"Does Your Majesty think this foul thing will go deeper?" Didymus whispers from his hiding place next to me. He sounds uncharacteristically solemn.

"I don't know," I reply, frustrated and curious, but I'm loathe to get closer. It would be too much like taunting a bear. "I'll keep an eye on it, though Heaven knows what I shall do if it worsens." Once a rift latches onto a dimension, it's very difficult to get rid of, like destroying a parasite. I'm not looking forward to another bout with a resident demon.

* * *

A week later, Didymus bounds into my throne room again, muttering frantically about the rift. He gesticulates wildly, which hints at impending chaos and doom.

It's a struggle not to roll my eyes. "We've already discussed this rift, Sir knight."

"Your Majesty, I don't mean to speak of  ** _that_  **rift!" Didymus exclaims. "That is to say, Sire, there is a  ** _second_  **one!"

My goblins squeal in terror as I leap from my throne with a roar.

Unfortunately, Didymus speaks true, and this rift has actually opened. When I spy on it from the trees, sheathed in my owl form, I can see the telltale sparks of other worlds - nasty ones, from the look of things.

* * *

The goblins discover a third rift shortly after this. They run yelling into my throne room, disrupting the other goblins, and the chickens, and the biting faeries. I sit rigid on my throne, pale and frozen and thoughtful as my denizens run riot, like hideous little children.

They only shut up once something else in the room explodes and, in the sudden silence, a small goblin asks, "What's Your Majesty gonna do now?" She's a tiny creature with a striped sock for a hat, one of Sarah's goblins. She's stubbornly taken to calling herself Lucky, though why she should choose such a moniker is beyond even my keen powers of deduction, as I certainly haven't had much luck of late.

"Sire, are these rifts more damage from ... the last time?" Didymus queries.

I run a pair of crystals over my hands. Brooding. Silent.

He means the last time Sarah defeated me, the last time Sarah destroyed the Labyrinth and ripped open holes between the worlds.

I let the crystals fall. They become dust before they ever hit the ground. "No," I sigh, "these are not from Sarah. They've never been here before. They're entirely new rifts." I curl my hands into fists.

The goblins titter anxiously. Didymus is stunned. "But what does it  ** _mean_**?"

My answer is a yell of laughter and rage. The goblins cower, and even brave Didymus flinches. "It means, Sir knight, that my Labyrinth has never recovered and likely never will! It's falling apart, and my power with it. And more rifts will come until they finally succeed at tearing me apart.  ** _That_  **is what it means."

And I laugh until I cover my face with my hands. Perhaps I would cry, if I held with that nonsense, but of course I don't.

* * *

_To be continued_


	11. The Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, for a very short period, Mom read me bedtime stories. We're talking like a two-month stretch when I was 5-years old. It was between movies, after one bad Christmas when she had an accident at Grandma's house.

 

__"The benefits of language are obvious. Without it, each new generation would repeat the mistakes and forego the learning of the past. Without it, our race would not advance._  But the view of ourselves and our world that comes to us through language is but a thin sliver of the multidimensional reality we inhabit."_

_-Ken Carey_

* * *

Believe it or not, for a very short period, Mom read me bedtime stories. We're talking like a two-month stretch when I was 5-years old. It was between movies, after one bad Christmas when she had an accident at Grandma's house.

I don't remember much of this time because I was so young, just the flurry of activity from the grown-ups. It was only after Mom's funeral that Dad filled me in on what  ** _really_  **happened: Mom was drunk and fell down a flight of stairs. She told everyone it was exhaustion, she'd just gotten back from a film set, she needed a break.

She got a break, alright: all the fingers on her left hand, and a lacerated cheek.

Sorry, bad joke. Anyway, Mom was more upset about her cheek. She said nobody wanted an actress with a busted-up face. I didn't know what that meant for years, and I don't know how that got resolved. Maybe it healed up better than she expected. Maybe she got plastic surgery. She wouldn't be the first in Hollywood. In any case, you could never tell she had an accident, and her career only got better and better.

I was happy though because Mommy being home sick meant she got to spend time with me.

Mom had this book of Greek myths from when she was a little girl. The book had an ugly gray cover with no pictures on it, and I thought there was no sense in reading a book with no pictures. Mom read it anyway. I liked the stories about Hercules, and Jason, and Theseus fighting the Minotaur. I liked Apollo, who in my dreams had a face that shone like the sun, and Aphrodite, who I imagined looked like Mom.

But I hated the story of Persephone's kidnapping. Maybe it was Mom's dramatic storytelling, or maybe it was my active imagination, but the kidnapping scene played out traumatically in my mind. I always imagined Persephone screaming as the earth closed over her head, and a terrible stillness descending upon the world as Demeter raced across it, frantically searching for her daughter.

"Hades is a bad man," I told Mom. "That's not fair, taking people away."

Mom sighed. As I grew older, I'd recognize it as a sign that she was tired of me and needed a break.

I wasn't done, though, and pressed on. "Persephone had to marry Hades?"

"Yes," Mom said. "And she stayed with him underground and became the Queen of the Underworld."

"That's dumb. Maybe she wanted to stay with her mommy above ground and do other things."

Mom laughed, but it was one of her gentle laughs. "Oh? Like what?"

I was very confident in my response. "She wanted to tell stories and fly!"

* * *

Mom's hand and face healed up. She went back to work soon after that and never read to me again.

* * *

"Sarah."

I turn back and stare out into the darkness. The Goblin King is a silent shadow beyond the glare of Muriel's porch lights, but his eyes reflect the light of the moon like a cat's. I don't remove my hand from the doorknob of Muriel's house.

He continues. "As long as you're queen-elect of the Labyrinth, you will have no peace until you return, just as I will have no peace until we have you. I've tried to be generous, but if you won't come of your own accord, I swear on all the worlds I will find a way to drag you home myself."

I can't help sniffing. It's all I can do to keep from laughing, and it would be cruel to laugh, wouldn't it? "You're going to be waiting a long time, Your Majesty," I reply. In the dark, I feel rather than see the Goblin King stiffen in anger. I go inside anyway and shut the door without a backward glance ... but as soon as I'm indoors, I lean against the door, release a breath I didn't realize I've been holding, and peer into the gloom of Muriel's house.

Hard to believe I've only been working for Muriel a week. I buried Mom two weeks ago. It might as well be two years.

* * *

Muriel lives in a house squished between a pair of brownstones like a pancake. The effect is so subtle and so strange that I walked right past it, that first time. I thought, this couldn't be the place. Not the little blue clapboard house with the bright red door and the flowers lining the brick front walk. It was too quaint. You didn't see this kind of thing in the city.

I don't know what I was expecting, but cute country houses like this were made for dropping on someone like Muriel. I didn't think the woman had it in her to garden. That would require an interest in nurturing things to keep them alive.

It turned out that following our disastrous interview, Muriel had wanted me to start right away. She didn't believe in wasting time. Until that point, I lived an anonymous life haunting the library stacks and grading papers. Now my mother was dead, Perez Hilton wanted to know my shoe size, and my childhood imaginary Goblin King in hot pants had just apprenticed me to the crankiest magician this side of Oz. Nothing made sense.

I probably should have refused the job. You know a job's going to be hell when the boss insults you and half your family during the interview. I showed up at Muriel's house anyway. How often do you get to study magic with a real magician? Everything else in my life sucked, so going home to collect unemployment and eat ramen like every other boring grown-up sounded about as appealing as itchy underwear.

At least Muriel would be interesting. If it got bad, I could always quit. I'd never had a problem with leaving anyone or any place.

_And you've been starved for an adventure for oh so many years,_ murmured a quiet internal voice. I was pretty sure it was my own, not the Goblin King's, but I couldn't be certain. It was worrisome how big a fixture he'd become inside my head the last few weeks, as if he'd made a nest of my skull.

Anyway, when I arrived at Muriel's house, I lifted the latch on the front gate and skipped past the rhododendrons with my hands in my pockets. An animal growled from somewhere in the bushes, but I couldn't see where it was. It sounded like a cat.

The porch had a love-seat, and rattan chairs, and a tinkling wind chime. I looked back at the front gate and the city street beyond it. Standing on that porch, I already felt like I was in another dimension. Traffic on the busy main street was muted, and nothing within the house moved.

_No turning back now._  I knocked on the front door and waited. It's rude to keep your hands in your pockets, so I fisted them at my side and forced myself not to fidget.

Muriel opened the door with her customary frown, and I wondered if smiling would cause her physical injury. She wore a pant suit and pearls, as if I'd caught her on the way to church. Muriel hesitated at my jeans. I wore a cute blouse with lace, very chic and feminine, maybe not austere enough for her. I looked like a poet.

I tried to smile reassuringly but ended up sort of looking like an idiot. She turned away with a weary sigh as if resigned to dealing with me. "I suppose we should get started," she said, half over her shoulder.

This was Muriel's idea of a welcome.

The house was stunning. From the outside, you'd guess Muriel had a folksy sense of decor. But inside, as I said, looked like a museum: lots of crystal and porcelain and glass and frothy green plants in Ming vases. From the doorway, I spied a piano with ivory keys jutting out from the living room. The ceiling had an ornate trim, and the brilliant cobalt and white floor tiles looked like imported Delftware.

This place didn't come cheap. I bet those pearls around her neck were harvested and strung by hand.  _Probably the hands of orphan children in Bangalore, before she ate their hearts._

Shayna would have chastised me for being so cynical. I didn't know how Reimi would respond. Toby and the Goblin King would snicker.

Muriel told me, "Wait here," and disappeared into another room. I worried my bottom lip and tapped my thighs, taking the momentary lull to inspect the foyer more thoroughly. A door to the left led to a kitchen, but all I could see from the front door was a round window and an iron rack hanging over an island. Even from a distance, it resembled a snapshot from  _Martha Stewart_  magazine.

18th century oil paintings lined the walls of the foyer, mostly pictures of English fox hunts, framed in brass and very imposing. A strange painting, much smaller than the others and framed in wood, hung alongside the mirror and a coat closet. The subject: a little girl in a bright lacy dress, all dimples and auburn curls.

I felt like I'd stepped through a portal to another time. What a strange house. Muriel must spend a lot of time at Sotheby's auctions.

The inside frame of the front door caught my eye, and I did a double take. _I must be seeing things_. Just to be sure, I squinted and ran a hand along the grain.

No, I wasn't seeing things. Someone had carved symbols deep into the wood. They ran the entire length of the frame, up and over the door and down to the floor. They might have been words, but I couldn't tell. The marks had a hard, angular appearance to them, as if they were spat from the mouth of a drill sergeant. While I didn't recognize the symbols, I felt as if I should have, as if they belonged to a language I spoke as a child and could no longer remember.

I somehow understood that the words told a story, but it's one I didn't recognize, and frustration bubbled hot and metallic in my mouth. I felt as if I stared a secret dead in the face yet still missed something glaringly obvious.

The words definitely weren't carved by a professional. It was an ugly hack job that someone did with the point of a knife.  _What the hell?_

A sudden rustling movement made me jump. The most horrific cat I had  ** _ever_  **seen in my life oozed its way into the hall, and I relaxed immediately. I'm a dog person, but I like cats. I thought back to the growling in the bushes outside and wondered how many felines Muriel had running around that old place.

"C'mere, kitty," I said cheerfully, dropping to my knees. "Pst, pst!"

The cat sniffed at me, unimpressed. It bore a striking resemblance to the mistress of the household in that respect. Its fur was a patchwork of brown, gray and black. Its eyes were mismatched and its jaw lopsided. One leg might have been bigger than the other. The cat looked like it had been cobbled together from spare parts.

It wore a bright red collar with a brass nameplate, but I couldn't read it from so far away. The collar was more handsome than the animal wearing it, that's for sure. I almost pitied the creature, except the look on the cat clearly said,  _Don't pity me._  It regarded me out of the corner of one eye as it licked its paws.

I stood as Muriel bustled back in with a sheaf of papers. "Hey, I think your cat's jaw is dislocated."

She barely spared the fugly monstrosity a second glance. "Who, him? He came that way. So, let's begin," she said in a droll tone. "I'm a busy woman, so don't ask me to repeat myself. I'm going to show you around today. Are you ready to proceed?"

I silently nodded.

"Excellent. I've asked you to my home today because a great deal of your work will take place here, whenever we're not at my office. In my line of work, I've found that life runs most efficiently with rules. So rule number one: do not discuss any aspect of this job with anyone else. Is that understood?"

"A hundred percent."

Muriel squinted as if trying to see through me. She looked deeply unhappy, and after a beat she added, "You're not the first apprentice I've trained, and you won't be the last. Nobody ever understand the importance of discretion, not in the beginning, but I can't stress enough that you  _ **must**  _be discreet.  _ **Nothing**  _is up for public disclosure. None of this going on Facebook, you hear? No chattering with your girlfriends. Make up a plausible story about what you do. Start learning now how to cover your tracks.

"People will not understand this work," Muriel continued. "At best, they'll think you're crazy - and believe me, that really is the best case scenario. Worst case, you will terrify them and shatter their innocence, and that's evil. Ignorance is a safety net. Knowledge, when a person isn't ready for it, can be utterly devastating. Do you understand this?"

"Uh, yes, and I have a question."

Muriel raised an eyebrow.

"Can I discuss our work with the Goblin King?"

"His Majesty follows his own rules. There is nothing I can keep safe from him, anyway. Yes, you may discuss our work with him. I'm his servant, so I suppose you would be his."

Servant, my ass. I mentally filed that bit of information away to discuss later with His Nibs.

"Rule number two." Muriel pointed at the front door behind me. "That door is to always be locked, and you  ** _must_  **check the peephole before you answer it. No exceptions. Clear?"

"Yes."

Muriel led me through the kitchen and the living room. I'd been right: she must have been a big Martha Stewart fan, because the rooms looked ready for a photo-shoot. The kitchen ceiling was as high as a cathedral, and the fridge was so big it could probably hold enough food for a last-minute Superbowl party. I was too afraid to sit in the living room in case I rumpled anything.

The cat followed us silently from room to room, sniffing as we went. I wasn't sure if it had a cold or was trying to spit on me.

"You have free reign of the house," Muriel said as she led me through the living room and into a little side room I hadn't noticed. It was a home office, not as big as the professional one where we interviewed. A new model MacBook sat on the desk, and behind the desk stood a glass-front book case. "You may read whatever you like in the living room, but you must ask me before touching anything in my office."

Oddities lined the shelves: not just books, but things that looked like they'd been stolen from a museum. Muriel pointed out a fearsome black skull resting on a purple cushion. "You are not to touch that skull. Don't even dust it."

Something was wrong with the eye sockets. The skull looked like it was scowling. I shuddered just looking at it. "Gotcha."

"Don't touch the flute either." She waved at a copper instrument protected by a glass case. "Or the mirror."

"What mirror?"

"That mirror." Muriel indicated an enormous mirror on the wall, covered by a length of black velvet. "But other than those things, you're fine."

"Haha," I said weakly.

Muriel led me to the second floor, which was a long hallway flanked by more paintings. There were some photographs here, too (old black-and-white shots of unfamiliar cities) and a teak cabinet with a brass lock. All the doors along the corridor were closed, and at the end of the corridor we found a bedroom with a canopy bed, a very fancy boudoir dresser, and many bookshelves.

"Is this house bigger on the inside than on the outside?" I asked.

"Oh," Muriel said, distracted. "Yes. This way."

We reentered the hallway and I saw that, in the ten seconds we'd spent in Muriel's room, the paintings outside had changed: they'd become floor-to-ceiling canvases featuring lonely windswept moors like what you'd find in a Brontë novel, and dark twisting trees under purple velvet skies, and dancing faeries wearing crowns of blackthorn and little else.

Muriel hummed softly to herself. I got the sense that even she was impressed, that perhaps she'd forgotten about me altogether, but then she murmured to me out of the corner of her mouth, "The house likes to show off for guests. It doesn't see many visitors on the upper floors."

I smiled, a real genuine smile, for the first time since I could remember. Nestled behind my ribs, my heart fluttered like a caged bird given the hope of flight.

* * *

I would've thought, given the fancy upstairs, that Muriel had a refinished basement - or at least paneled walls and a carpet. She didn't. When she took me downstairs, I was struck by the odor of dust and damp. Light filtered in from a few tiny windows, illuminating piles of junk. It looked like any basement you'd find anywhere in America.

"You won't come down here often," Muriel admitted. She indicated an old door in the corner, next to a tower of squashed cardboard boxes. The door was so old that I couldn't tell if the green color came from paint or mildew. The edges were tinged with water stains and rust. "I'm the only one with the key to that door. Don't ever attempt to open it without my express direction. If you do, I'll fire you immediately, no questions asked."

The door had a sinister aura to it that put me to mind of gas chambers and slaughterhouses. You couldn't pay me enough money to go near it, let alone open it. I felt slightly sick. "Yeah, no worries there. Can we go upstairs now?"

As we climbed the stairs again, the ugly patchwork cat darted between my legs and streaked back into the foyer. I hadn't even noticed it follow us downstairs. The little creature moved like a shadow.

* * *

In the foyer again, Muriel handed me a key on a length of ribbon. "This unlocks the front door. I lock it even when I'm home, so you'll need it to get in and out."

I silently tied the ribbon around my neck and tucked it into my shirt.

"Your duties," Muriel continued, "are to assist me in whatever I must do ... and my work varies incredibly from day to day and month to month. I may be seeing clients. I may be doing research. I may be taking conference calls with people overseas. Do you have a strong stomach?"

My memory flashed back to Moscow. Izmaylovo Market. A speeding car, people screaming. My hands, slick with a stranger's blood as I guided him into the next world. "How strong are we talking here?"

Muriel stopped to inspect me again. I got the sense she still had doubts about me. "My work can get intense."

I followed her into the kitchen, where she began rustling about for teacups. "What exactly does a magician do?"

"Magicians do all sorts of things," Muriel said as she filled a teapot from the sink. "In the old days, we blessed crops for good harvests, and weapons for victories in battle. We protected mothers in childbirth, and healed the sick and wounded. We invoked gods to do our bidding." She put the teapot on the stove and turned on the pilot light. When she looked at me, her face was very solemn. "And sometimes, we fight monsters, because we're the only ones who can."

Monsters. _Like that melted face guy who followed me home last week._  My stomach felt funny. "Are monsters common?"

"Oh, yes." Muriel bustled about for sugar and pulled down a single teacup from a cupboard. She didn't offer me anything. "Sometimes I'll have clients stop by, too, to pick up concoctions I've made for them to help with a broken heart or a family curse, that sort of thing. Like I said, it varies. You have to be quick on your feet and not easily rattled. I need you to be my second pair of eyes and hands. I need to be able to trust you ... so I suppose you see the problem already."

"You don't trust me?"

Muriel snorted. "Do you trust  ** _me_**?"

I was silent.

"Well," Muriel announced with a tone of finality, "there we are."

"So how do we make this work?"

"Prove to me that I can trust you." Muriel smiled again, but it was one of her not-so-nice smiles. "His Majesty bade me accept you as my apprentice, but he never said for how long. If you displease me, if you break my rules, I will dismiss you without hesitation."

_We'll see about that. Challenge accepted._

"I don't give a damn whether you like me, but you  ** _will_  **obey me. His Majesty is under the impression you dislike obedience and hate authority in all forms. I suggest you disabuse yourself of this preference as soon as possible. It'll be easier for you."

I sucked my teeth in annoyance, but because my curiosity overrode my ego, I only replied, "Alright."

"Magic is dangerous in the wrong hands," Muriel continued. "I won't put anyone's life on the line because of my apprentice's idiocy. You'll defer to my better judgment or you won't be here long. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Good. Any questions? Make an attempt to be clever."

"What's the cat's name?"

"What cat?"

I pointed at the ugly little monster rubbing himself against the kitchen doorway. "That cat."

Muriel chuckled. "Who, Nix? He's my little shadow." There was an inside joke here that I wasn't getting, but I didn't pursue the matter. Muriel suddenly turned on me, even more ferocious than when she showed me the black skull and the forbidden basement door. She stabbed a finger at the cat. "That collar is to  ** _never_  **come off him under  ** _any_  **circumstances.  ** _Ever!_**  Am I clear enough on that point for you?"

Muriel's glare could have incinerated a Nazi from fifty feet away. I recoiled into the kitchen table, stunned by the mood swing. "Yeah, sure! Of course! Christ!"

"Good." She rummaged around in the refrigerator and brought out a puke green thermal lunch bag. Something inside it clinked like glass. "Your first job is to deliver this. Here's the address. Bring Nix, and be home by lunch time."

The lunch bag had a strap, so I pulled it over my head. It fit snugly against me like a messenger bag. I glanced warily at Muriel, who sat down at the kitchen table and began sifting through some papers. "Do you have a crate for Nix?"

She barked a laugh without looking up.

Fine. I glanced down at the patchwork cat, who now sat patiently next to me as if waiting for a bus. Nix glanced up with blood red eyes and his lopsided jaw. He was far too calm to be in pain, so I guessed his funny mouth and leg didn't hurt him. "You are one ugly little bastard, aren't you?" I cooed sadly.

Nix squinted and replied, "You're no peach either, missy. Oh, but you don't like peaches, do you?"

My jaw dropped so fast and so hard that I was surprised I didn't dislocate it.

"You'd better get going." Muriel still hadn't looked up from her paperwork, but she sounded annoyed. "Traffic is beastly at this hour."

* * *

It was coming on nine in the morning, and the air was turning warm. I'd parked down the street in front of a deli. Somehow Nix already knew which car was mine because he led me right to it. The mismatched back legs gave him a funny gait when he walked, like an old man trying to pop a squat.

As soon as I opened the door, Nix hopped in and reclined in the passenger seat - not on his haunches but on his butt, legs stretched out before him like a human.

Because it was New York, I instinctively locked the doors as soon as I got in and strapped on my seat belt, and then I stared at the ugly monstrosity reclining next to me. If I hadn't known better, I'd have guessed Nix was a man kicking back at Happy Hour after one too many Heinekens. We stared at each other for a long time.

I spoke first. "I'm going out on a limb here and guessing you're not really a cat."

"Oh? What tipped you off?"

"Well, for one thing, you smell worse than any feline I've ever met."

Nix was completely unfazed by this assessment. "Whiskey always gives me the wind."

"So why's Muriel trying to pass you off as a cat?"

"Did she ever say I was?"

_Who, Nix? He's my little shadow._  I guess she didn't. I was going to have to pay closer attention to people's words and the hidden meanings beneath them. Before I could say anything else, Nix pointed a claw in front of us. "Go down this street and hang a left. I'll direct you to the Gowanus Expressway. The traffic there shouldn't be too bad right now."

"Do you want the seat belt?"

Nix licked his paws, a sound of pleasure rumbling in this throat. "No."

Uncertain, and suddenly wishing I was home with Boudica, I pulled out and drove.

* * *

Our destination was a Chinatown merchant's with toys and beads hanging in the window. Near the tip of Manhattan, where everything's built on top of everything else like a drunkard playing Jenga, parking was impossible. I parked along the curb anyway. Nix surprised me not only by coming with me but jumping onto my shoulder as I went.

I was the only white person in there. The innards of the store resembled the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh that's been crammed with everything he could need in the afterlife. Bolts of cloth lay piled to the ceiling, and one wall contained faded books in English, Thai, Korean, and Khmer. Several people clustered around the front counter watching a Chinese news program and animatedly talking among themselves in what sounded like very excited Cantonese.

An older man noticed me immediately and stepped forward. "Can I help you?" He didn't blink at Nix on my shoulder.

"Hello. I'm here to make a delivery to Mr. Han." I showed him the thermal lunchbox, and his eyes widened.

"Yes, yes, that's me. Follow me, please." Mr. Han led me to a back room behind a curtain. This sounded like a set-up for a horror movie, but I figured I could take an old guy if he got nasty. When we got to the back office, I unloaded the contents of the lunchbox. Given the big deal that was made about the delivery, I expected something big and important. Instead I only found 6 small jars filled with ... water?

I arranged the jars carefully on his desk and handed him the note that came with them. The note was written in Chinese, in a delicate hand that I guessed was Muriel's. Mr. Han read it carefully, then nodded at me with a strange little smile that I couldn't begin to decipher.

_Well, that's it._  Nix and I left by the front door and returned to my car. Miraculously, I hadn't gotten a ticket.

If we had more time, I'd have stopped at the Häagen-Dazs down the street for some ice cream, but noon approached. "That wasn't so hard," I said as we headed back to Brooklyn.

Nix yawned. "Day's not over yet."

* * *

To my surprise, Muriel actually offered me lunch. We sat at her large kitchen table and munched on chicken sandwiches. They were awesome sandwiches, must have come from a deli. The chicken was battered in something spicy and slathered in mayonnaise. Muriel poured herself wine, but I was confused when she pushed a glass of something dark and unfamiliar in front of me. I stared for a beat in surprise: chocolate milk.

When I looked up at Muriel, questioning, she smiled in that strange way of hers that indicated another private joke. I could tell this was going to be a thing with her.

After lunch, Muriel handed me a small package bound in rough brown paper tied with string. "Don't open the package. You have your mobile phone, yes? I want you to text me every time you arrive at a job and every time you leave. Tell me where you're going and when you will return. If you don't, I will come find you, and you will not like that. Understood?"

"You know, you don't have to be so harsh." My heart stuttered a bit at the look Muriel shot me, but I boldly pressed on. "I mean, this whole hazing routine. Magic is dangerous and you want me safe. I get it."

"I don't think you do, Sarah. Unfortunately your brain will only catch up with your mouth the day something bad happens, and by then it will be too late. I don't intend to lose you before I've trained you properly."

I felt too uneasy to even be insulted at her latest barb. But something bad had already happened. Whatever followed me home last week was definitely not human. Was this going to be the norm now?  _Should I tell Muriel?_

Muriel still looked at me like I'd killed one of her cats.  _Probably not._  Muriel didn't trust me and I didn't trust her. Telling her about some ghost following me home would probably cause more drama than I needed right then.

I glanced at the slip of paper Muriel had handed me: another address, this one in Astoria. She told me, when I got there, to ask for Jamal.

* * *

Muriel sent me on half a dozen errands that day. Nix accompanied me on every one, and for the most part he stayed silent and unobtrusive. As we once again left Muriel's little blue house that was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside, I cast a wary glance at the cat slumped like a drunk in my passenger seat. "Can you talk when other people are around, or do you choose not to?"

"Most cats can," Nix said. "They just don't."

"Why not?"

Nix scratched himself without a care for his audience. "Well, humans rarely say anything worth responding to."

* * *

The last job was a personal errand and required stopping at a pharmacy. The tech behind the counter shoved a white paper bag at me, a prescription stapled to the front. I don't know why I was surprised that Muriel used medication. I guess even sorcerers have to rely on science sometimes.

As soon as the cashier rang me up, I palmed my phone in my pocket and blindly texted Muriel, my fingers working by memory:  _Done at the pharm coming home now._

Nix waited patiently for me in the passenger's seat of my car, and he looked curiously at the bag as I plopped it in his lap. "Hold that for me, okay?" I started the car and exclaimed softly under my breath, "It's 7 o'clock. Where'd the time go?"

"We should head home," Nix said. His paws were folded across his stomach, contemplative. For an eerie moment, I was reminded of the Goblin King. "It will be dark soon."

_Obey the cat._  I made immediately for Muriel's, and miraculously there was a parking spot available out front. The entire house was lit up, like a lighthouse guiding ships home. It was a warming sight.

I rang the bell, and Muriel opened it with a curious look. "Don't you have your key?" she queried. She looked tired and not as frightening as she usually did.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I forgot." As I spoke, I was aware of Nix winding sinuously between my legs as he vanished inside the house. I handed Muriel her prescription and a ceramic music box that had been wired shut. "Jamal asked me to give you this. He said you'd know what to do with it."

Muriel took it without further comment. "Did you have any trouble today?"

"No."

"Do you have any questions for me?"

_Loads_. "What does all this have to do with being a magician? I'm not an errand girl."

A smile threatened to curl Muriel's lip. "I will see you in the morning. Same time. Do you paint?"

Thrown by this sudden question, all I could do was stare and stammer, "What? ... yeah. Yes. Not in a while, though."

"Perhaps you should." A miracle: Muriel actually smiled. It was one of the Goblin's King cat-eating-the-canary smiles, the kind that plucked at the marrow in your bones like a guitar string. Coming from Muriel, it was a little disconcerting.

Then she closed the door, leaving me alone on the porch again. And that was my first day working for a magician.

* * *

I lock the front door behind me so Muriel doesn't have a cow and then go look for the mistress of the household. She's not hard to find; I follow the light around the corner from the living room. Looks like another late night in her office. I find Muriel seated behind her desk, typing on her computer and pouring over some notes. She appears to barely notice me as I enter, but then she wordlessly indicates a chair before her desk. I take a seat and wait.

Muriel closes the laptop and removes her glasses. She's dressed like a rich Stepford widow again today. Nix lies sprawled on the desk next to her like roadkill. "How were your errands? Anything out of the ordinary happen today?"

"The Goblin King showed up." Or rather,  ** _I_  **found  ** _him_** , but that's an intimate detail I don't feel like sharing.

My mentor purses her lip. "I see. What did His Majesty want?"

"Nothing. He just wanted to talk."

Muriel looks at me for a very long time.

I mutter, "Jesus, would you say something? You're making me nervous."

"Sarah, what do you  _ **know**  _of the Goblin King?"

I shrug and look at the ceiling. "He rules the Goblin Kingdom. Likes to dance. Dresses like he robbed Prince's wardrobe. For some reason, he seems to like me."

"Hmm." It's a very neutral sound, which is strange given Muriel's habit of criticism. She rubs the bridge of her nose, then crosses the room to the other bookshelves - the ones holding the creepy black skull and museum knickknacks. She pulls a particular book off the shell, an old volume bound in faded orange cloth that she begins to flip through. After a moment, she finds what she's looking for and holds the book out to me. "Take it. It won't bite."

The book smells like it's only recently been liberated from a damp library basement. I take the book from her hands. The open page is printed in a crisp font and can't be older than the 20th century. The opposite page contains a template of ancient Egyptian art that, according to the caption, dates to the 7th and 8th dynasties.

My throat catches. Amid the kohl-eyed humans in white linen and the yellow-skinned gods with animal heads, the bone-white figure in black stands out like a star going nova. He clutches a child in his arms as he relaxes in a boat, piloted by Horus across a gentle night sky. The body proportions are all wrong for real life but perfect by ancient Egypt's standards. Even here, I recognize the leanness of his form and the cleverness in those strange, flat hands, used to juggling crystals. The one eye is hard and lifeless and blue.

"Jareth," I whisper. My fingers and feet have gone cold.

" _ **Don't**  _say the name!" Muriel takes the book back from me, annoyed, and leans against the desk. "He's not human, Sarah. Never has been, never will be. He won't understand your mortal experiences or fears. He's a god with his own concerns. His kind plays by its own rules. Never forget that."

I stare at my hands. "He told me he was a fertility god, once, before he was Goblin King."

Muriel chuckles. "We are a sum of our experiences, none of which ever leave us. His Majesty has always had a connection to children and birth, no matter what form it takes. We're a lot alike in that respect." I must look confused, because she adds, "Humans and gods, I mean. We're constantly changing, or the most successful of us do. But that's a philosophy lecture for another day. I have something for you."

I perk up a little at that. Muriel hands me something small wrapped in velvet. Puzzled, I unwrap it and look up at her, uncomprehending. "Are you serious?"

Muriel's gifted me a faded deck of Tarot cards.

"Only if you'd prefer to be my errand girl the rest of your life," she snipes. "You can begin your real training when you've told me what the cards depict."

"But each card depicts something different!" Too late, I realize I'm yelling. Muriel pretends not to hear me, and I storm off to bed. I hate this place.

* * *

The guest bedroom is more comfortable than the living room couch, that's for sure. It's cozy and quaint, all blue flowers and lace. The room looks like Macy's sneezed all over it during a back-to-school sale. I'm almost too tall for the bed. Almost.

An easel mirror with a black wood frame stands by the door, a lone sentinel. The first thing I do upon entering the room is cover it with a spare bed sheet. I've had too much experience with magic to trust mirrors anymore. Otherwise, there's not much space left in the room, aside from a writing desk and a nightstand. The furniture looks old and dry enough to make for good kindling.

But like I said, it's better than the couch.

High beams from a car filter through the blinds and roam across the closet door. In the darkness, shadows move. There's a rustle at the foot of my bed, and something inhuman giggles like a child.

I groan into my pillow. "Guys, it's past your bedtime. Go to sleep."

The goblins bicker among themselves while they settle in. As their self-appointed leader, Lucky gets first dibs on the place of honor at my feet, curling herself into a prickly little ball. At least she's divested herself of her armor first, so I don't get poked by steel in the middle of the night again.

While the goblins make themselves at home, I pluck the Tarot deck from the nightstand and hold it up to the light from the window. "What a joke," I say aloud to no one in particular, but I can sense the goblins hanging on my every word. " _Tell me what the cards depict_ , my ass! What kind of test is this?"

"Is Your Majesty coming home soon?" Wicket asks sleepily from the other side of the room. From the sound of his voice, I'll bet he's made a nest of my desk drawers.

I shuffle the cards blindly between my hands. "Tomorrow, Wicket. I'm just crashing Muriel's tonight."

"Not the apartment," Bertrand insists. "The Labyrinth."

" ... no, guys," I reply absentmindedly.  _Not this conversation again._  "The Labyrinth isn't my home."

The goblins mutter unhappily among themselves. I sigh and try to think of something encouraging, but I fall silent as I flip over a card. Against a yellow background, a young man in a brilliant jester costume dances across a cliff's edge, his face turned up to the sun without a care in the world. A little white dog runs along at his feet, barking a frantic warning to his clueless master.

But it's the caption at the bottom that makes me freeze:  _The Fool._

Jareth, sitting on the sofa in my living room. Jareth, his face a death mask, frozen in grief at my latest rejection. Bone-white porcelain, clay from the grave, suddenly animated by a joke. Laughing, laughing at me.  _Did no one ever tell you the tale of the fool, and what happened when he stepped off the cliff? He flew._

I hiss through my teeth. "That son of a bitch!"

It's really hard to sleep after that, but I'm nothing if not stubborn. Just ask Jareth.

* * *

I startle awake in bed to the light streaming through my window, bright enough to illuminate the world. I don't remember falling asleep, and when I urgently look about the room, my goblins are missing. It can't be morning already, can it?

I'm naked, so I pull the bed sheet with me as I rise, wrapping it around my torso as I go. "Lucky?" I whisper. "Orson? Hobb?" I pull aside the curtain on the window overlooking Muriel's backyard, overrun with flowering shrubs of Hydrangea and Lilac. The sky is still night here, and the neighbors' is dark. In the distance, a dog barks and city traffic hums.

It's not day. The light is, in fact, moonlight. When I look up, for just a moment, the sight steals my breath. The moon hangs luminous and heavy in the sky, bigger than I've ever seen it. Impossibly big, as if it's sneaked up to my window. I can count the craters in its surface, perhaps touch it if I stretched my fingers.

I exhale with sudden understanding. "This is a dream."

"Oh, yes." A whisper, almost stolen by the wind. Almost.

Startled, I glance down into the garden and spot him immediately in the shadows of an old fig tree that Muriel's been talking of chopping down. Even from here, I can tell he's naked. The surrounding foliage cloaks him well, and he watches me like an angry satyr, shaggy and silent. If it weren't for the glowing eyes, and the pale skin (white like a hollow bone), I might mistake him for human. He has very small, very pink nipples, and a very long neck. He'd make a wonderful fashion model, I've decided. Even his pendant is missing, and his feathery hair has been tossed by the wind. He looks as if he's lain dormant in the surrounding trees for a season and just come alive again.

Despite myself, the corners of my mouth tip up, but the smile doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Hi, Jareth."

He cocks his head at me like a bird, but his pale eyes, translucent in this light, never leave mine. "I see my name isn't that difficult to say, after all. How fortuitous."

"How come," I wonder aloud, leaning my weight against the windowsill, "you keep showing up in my dreams?"

Jareth's smile, on the other hand, does a  ** _very_  **good job of reaching his eyes. I think his toothsome smile could crack the world in two, given the chance. "You invited me in, Precious. And so I have come, to salute your lilies and present my greetings to your roses."

"You didn't tell me you're a poet."

"I'm a man of many talents, Sarah."

"You're not a man."

"No," he says gently, "I'm not. I can love you far deeper than any man, Dearest."

I better head this off before he really gets rolling. "Jareth, tell me about the Fool."

This actually throws him a bit, which is surprisingly satisfying. He pauses and stares at me as if he's never seen me before, but it's a momentary lapse, and then he smiles again. "You  ** _impress_** me, Sarah. I wouldn't have thought you'd remember that conversation. And what do you wish to know about the Fool?"

"Why did you ask me that riddle?" I counter, brushing loose hair from my eyes. I'm suddenly hyper aware of my bare shoulders, and the thin bed sheet barely covering my tits. "Who is the Fool?"

"From small beginnings come great things," Jareth replies, as if rattling off wisdom far more ancient than himself. "The Fool is the start of the journey, the virgin child leaving the safe bosom of the parent to venture out into the world. He is the trickster, the maverick, the source of all potential, the spirit in search of experience and inner light. If you seek the Fool, you need only look in the mirror." There is no maliciousness in this statement.

Blood roars in my ears, but I refuse to tremble. "How did you know Muriel would give me Tarot cards?"

He chuckles under his breath. "Because it's an old tradition, one I followed with her when she became  _ **my**  _student."

"So ... so you know the answer to the riddle. About what the cards depict."

"Of course." Boredom.

"And what do the cards depict, Jareth?"

He looks up at me from beneath heavy lashes. The smile is back, but it's coy. He knows I'm using his name now to stroke his ego. "You know, I don't believe I'll tell you. Now, come out for a run beneath the stars, Precious. I'll teach you to fly. The moonlight will look so good on your back."

"It's not the moonlight you're imagining on my back, Your Majesty," I reply witheringly, and Jareth throws back his head and howls his laughter to the sky.

* * *

I wake up with snoring goblins all around me and muted sunlight filtering through the curtains. I'm wearing pajamas. There's no engorged moon hanging over the backyard when I peek through the window.

_Just a dream,_  I think. Except not really.

That bastard. He knew ever since I made my wish that he'd apprentice me to Muriel, that she'd torture me, even that she'd give me a Tarot deck and a stupid, impossible riddle to solve before I could progress beyond errands to actual magic. He knows the answer to the riddle, too, and he'll tease me with it, but he won't share.

"Goblin King," I mutter, rapping my fingers against the windowsill. "King of the trolls is more like it."

* * *

_To be continued._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And so I have come, to salute your lilies and present my greetings to your roses." = Pulled almost word for word from Cyrano de Bergerac, by Edmond Rostand. Jareth is quite a fan of French neo-romanticism.


	12. Fortunate Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Richard appeared to me was in a dream. No, that's not a cheap pickup line.

 

_Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness._

-Maya Angelou

* * *

12.

Richard has been dead for forty-seven years, five months, and three days. I'm told he died on a Tuesday, but I didn't know until days after the funeral. You'd think someone with my stature would be afforded certain courtesies, like a timely notice that his dearest friend has fucking died.

I'm still angry about that.

He was not the only man I've ever loved, my Richard, though it's possible I loved him the most. It's difficult to tell with these things. Memory has a nasty habit of running away with you. You're never really certain about the accuracy of anything, because your mind will constantly distort its recollection of events. Memory is strange and insidious that way.

For example, what colour were Richard's eyes? Perhaps they were a warm brown, like Earl Grey after the tea leaves have steeped for too long. Or perhaps they were a cold blue, like the sky turns in the autumn up north. Or maybe they were green (like Sarah's), the sort of verdant foamy richness you find on forest floors in northern Ireland.

But no, my memories say that Richard's eyes were brown ... although every once in a while, a sudden memory arises where they're another colour, and I'm stuck second guessing myself again.

What's real and what's the dream? As memory constantly reshapes history, I'm never quite sure.

I think his eyes were brown.

* * *

The first time Richard appeared to me was in a dream. No, that's not a cheap pickup line. I actually saw him in a dream. I thought he  ** _was_**  the dream, to be honest. I was traveling through a strange, backward dimension, the sort of crooked little world that humans avoid even in their nightmares. Oh, if you could only have seen it - though it would be useless trying to explain it to you. It was a topsy-turvy place, teeming with oddities the human mind can't process outside of dreams.

So it was easy to spot Richard in the midst of all that strange, tingling, capricious mess. He was so ... so ...  ** _normal_**. So blessedly human. He didn't fit at all. Of course I thought he was part of the landscape. Not a real person, but an imaginative outcropping of the tableau, like a weed.

If I hadn't been in such a hurry, I would have smelled the realness on him. Smelled his blood, his hope, his dreams, his light. Humans are rather obvious that way. What an idiot I was.

Serendipity is a strange word and, in some respects, it's quite typical of the English language. Horace Mann made one of the first known mentions of the word in a letter to a friend, in which he mentioned a Persian fairytale called  _The Three Princes of Serendip,_ who were always making discoveries they were not quite looking for.

The core essence of  _serendipity_  is difficult to translate, for you non-native speakers. The word implies a fortunate happenstance, created entirely at random, with no preconceived design. But you're speaking to a god right now, so we know unscripted events don't exist, don't we?

So I'm not sure how it was that Richard and I met. Did one of us, unconsciously or not, draw the other to him? I still don't know.

* * *

"They were fucking."

Sound carries extremely well in Princeton's music department, so the responding gasp was audible even from a distance. "You didn't actually put that in the paper!"

"Of course I did. History's history, isn't it?"

"Walton's gonna take that out of your hide."

"Do I look like I care?"

The voices shut up as I turned the corner. They belonged to a pair of young men clustered around the door at the end of the corridor. Both boys looked like they'd been stamped from the same mould, but for one of them the mould had clearly gone wrong.

The blond boy wore trousers, a checkered waistcoat that matched his tie, and a tweed jacket that must have been pressed earlier that morning. Hair? Close-cropped and slicked back. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd stolen his glasses from a professor. They made him look far older than his years and quite nebbish.

The darker boy was a curiosity to me. Of course, I recognized him instantly from my dream. _Well, well! So he's real, after all!_

He wore black trousers, and a black jacket over a white dress shirt. Even his shoes were black. His brown hair was short but looked as if it had never seen a comb. I imagined he'd just fallen out of bed. His body was far lankier than the blond boy's, as if when puberty had ended, his torso and limbs had stubbornly insisted on continuing their wayward projectory onward and outward. Althought it was late fall in Princeton, hardly beach weather, he wore sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar.

And was that a pack of cigarettes I saw in one pocket? Yes, it was.

At that moment, I realized the lads were inspecting me just as deeply. Or rather, I should say they gawked a bit, even the darker boy who clearly fancied himself a badass. The young budding professor looked confused, as if he were about to sneeze. The rebel without a cause looked frightened, then angry, then uncertain why he was angry, which made him even angrier.

"Hullo, I see Walt's got his hands full this morning," I said pleasantly, which made the pair gawk further. My clothes were similar enough to theirs, and my short hair fit in with local custom. But I knew my eyes were strange, the angles of my face and body odd, and that magick couldn't hide the way the air crackled in my presence. I've said before that I upset most mortal senses. "Is there a queue to see him?"

They stared some more, then blinked in tandem.

"Yes," the darker boy said. "But you should knock. He'll be happier to see you than he will me."

I grinned at that. I might have even winked. "Fair enough."

The boy shifted his attention to those darling black shoes, which is when the door burst open and a stout older man burst out of it. "Mister Goodman! Come in, come in! So good to see you. You-" He turned ferocious attention on the boys. "-can wait here." And he shut the door behind us right on their faces.

I've made a habit over the millennia of collecting humans. They're not quite friends, because of course they never know who I am, but they're not enemies. You could call them allies. Heath Walton - or Walt, as his colleagues called him - was an especially well-regarded professor at Princeton. He'd written numerous books, spoken at many prestigious colloquia, and trained up musicians you could pay a princely sum to see at the London Symphony Orchestra and the Berlin Philharmonic.

I hesitate to say Walt was popular. He terrified the students and half the faculty. He once confided in me, "Machievelli said it was better to be feared than loved, and by God, that man was right." If Walt had lived in 15th century Florence instead of 20th century New Jersey, I'm certain he would have been a stooge for the Medici. He had a vast network, a long memory, and a calculating mind that would have been the envy of Old Nick.

For such a feared man, his office was surprisingly inviting. Bookshelves lined one wall, and another had framed nineteenth-century prints of boats on the Hudson River. A lacrosse stick stood propped in a corner, and the room was infused with the faint odour of black cherry pipe tobacco. It was a homey little place with an oddly rustic feel to it.

Walt directed me to a fat, squishy chair in front of his desk, where an empty teacup waited at my elbow. "Have a seat, David. Gosh, it's been an eternity since we've spoken, hasn't it?" He grunted as he relaxed into his chair.

I briefly wondered what eternity meant to a fifty-six year old human with bad knees and rheumatoid arthritis. "Oh yes, it's been quite a while. How is everything? How's Polly?"

He motioned for my cup and filled it from a steaming teapot. "Dating some idiot from UCLA. I don't know what she sees in him, but she won't listen to me. She's got her mother's stubbornness. Ever been married, David?"

The tea smelled delicious but was too hot to drink, so I kept it on my thigh. "Me? No."

"Didn't want to?"

"I never got around to it, I suppose."

"Well, you're a man. We can get away with putting that off. But, forgive me, you've got to be approaching forty by now, no? Don't put it off forever, otherwise one day you'll wake up old and alone."

"It must be difficult since Martha ..."

"Martha was the love of my life. After she died, I couldn't think of taking up with anyone else. My daughter's grown, I've got my work. I'm content."

"Of course," I said politely.

"Now then! How is business? Pardon my French, but you saved our asses with that donation last year."

"Princeton can hardly be struggling for donations."

He chuckled. "As far as the Board of Trustees is concerned, it always is."

The tea was finally cool enough to sip. Darjeeling. Delicious. "Business is proceeding nicely. I've decided I need a vacation."

"Acquisitions must be tiring."

I couldn't help a very toothy smile. "You wouldn't believe how much fun it can be."

"Buying up and merging companies? I'll take your word for it. I've always said if you were born in another time, you'd be a pirate."

"I only take what I'm offered, need I remind you."

"The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks!" This comment was said with more mischievousness than malice. I took no offence. We spoke at length about all sorts of things: the market, and politics, and literature, and a host of other things which I can no longer recall. I remember Walt lamented that I never became a professional musician ("I've seen you with the piano, my boy, don't think I haven't"), and that turned into a lengthy discussion on Strauss.

When the tea had finally run its course, Walt got out the scotch. He offered me a cigar, which I declined, then lit one for himself, settled deeply into his chair and sighed. "I tell you, I love my work, but sometimes it frustrates the living hell out of me."

"That boy outside," I murmured, thinking of the lad outside with the sullen mouth.

Walt darkened. "The Ellingson boy? He's a whole other kettle of fish. Wants to transfer to the music department. Harris and Vanderhoof insist the kid's a genius. I think he's a menace. Here." He rifled through a neat stack of papers on his immaculately kept desk, pulled out a paper with more red ink than black, and tossed it at me. "Take a look at that, why don't you?"

I can read documents at superhuman speed, so it took a concerted effort to read slow and laboriously like a human. I flipped the first few pages, skimming here and there, never once looking up. "He wrote about Chopin's relationship with George Sand?"

"Legitimate,  ** _important_**  aspects of music history. I was quite clear when I gave the assignment. Instead he writes about some tawdry affair. The boy should save his parents the cost of tuition at this fine institution and get a job writing for Playboy if that's how he wants to waste good paper and ink."

"I think it's rather tastefully done," I murmured, finally looking up. I delicately returned the paper to the desk, but Walt snatched it up and dropped it into the dustbin.

"Garbage and filth," he insisted. "I suppose it could have been worse. He originally wanted to write about the erotic content in Ganymed. It's this beatnik stuff, David. It's ruining the youth."

"What does he play?"

"Pardon?"

"Ellingson. Does he play an instrument?"

"Violin. He's perfectly adequate."

"He must be more than 'perfectly adequate' if your colleagues are raving about him."

"My colleagues are fools. Easily exciteable."

"So are you going to accept him into your programme?"

"Heavens, no. The biology department can keep him. He clearly doesn't take anything seriously, and he couldn't follow the rules if his life depended on it."

"I knew another young man like that."

"Oh?"

I smiled pleasantly. "You call him Mozart."

Walt gave me a nasty look. "Very funny. Mozart made something of himself. If Ellingson manages to graduate and avoid prison, I'll be surprised. Speaking of which, I should take care of the little problem waiting outside my door. Forgive me."

"Of course," I said smoothly, standing to go. We warmly shook hands. "Always a pleasure, Walt."

The blond boy was gone when Walt opened the door again. He managed to startle Ellingson, who was in the middle of a smoke. Walt plucked the offending cigarette out of his hands and held it up as if it would bite. "Ellingson," he said in a voice that, if condenscension were acid, could have stripped the paper off the walls.

The boy gave a little smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Happy to see you again, Walton."

"Inside. Now." Walt held the door a little longer after the boy had gone in and nodded at me. "Thanks for stopping by, David. Come to the lake house sometime. We'll ride horses."

* * *

By the time young Ellingson left the music department, it was starting to get dark, and he jumped to find me waiting on the bench outside. "Ah! Mister Ellingson!" I said. "How did it go?"

He stared at me as if I were the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. "Can I help you?"

"Not in the least. Other way around, as a matter of fact. What's your name?"

"Why? Are you writing a book?"

"You're very rude. I can see why Walt doesn't like you."

"And you're a prick. If the old man likes you, that's all I need to know." He turned up the collar of his jacket and kept walking.

"Do you still wish to get into the music programme?" I called.

He stopped dead, as if his legs had turned to clay right there on the pavement. I knew I had him.

"It's easy if you know the right way about it," I added slyly.

The boy turned, suspicious. "Who the hell are you?"

"Just a friend."

"Sure, man. What does an old square like you want with someone like me?"

"Nothing," I said honestly. "But I hear you're an exceptional musician. Or rather, Walt says you're perfectly adequate. I know that means he's insanely jealous, and Walt doesn't get jealous. So now I'm curious what could possibly get him into a lather. If you're that good, it would be a crime not to help you."

The boy stared at me harder. His eyes were dark with an intense focus to them. I could tell he was the kind of person who would practice at something he loved until his hands bled. "What's your name?"

"David Goodman." I lied fluidly and without hesitation, as if the name had been born to me. I've had many years of practice.

"People call you Dave?"

"Never," I said firmly. "It's David or nothing at all, thank you."

"British?"

"Assuredly."

"You're very weird, Mister ... David."

"You have no idea. What's your name?"

A well formed between his brows, as if a thumb had pressed into cold clay. It was a stubborn look, or perhaps one of confusion, but he answered, "Richard."

"Do people call you Rich?"

"No. Just Richard. Always Richard."

"Alright. Richard, do you like coffee?"

* * *

When we arrived at the cafe, we instinctively avoided the booths and sat ourselves on stools at the counter so we wouldn't have to stare at each other. I'd already drank my fill of tea and scotch at Walt's, so I ran my thumb over the handle of a coffee mug and didn't bother drinking anything. Richard ordered a chocolate milkshake, but when it arrived he ignored it and kept glancing at me across the chipped linoleum countertop. "So ... what's your story?"

This close up, I realized my earlier assessment was untrue: Richard had not fallen out of bed and never touched his hair. There was a sheen to it that indicated some amount of styling - mousse, perhaps, with a slight touch up from a comb. It took a lot of effort to look that unrehearsed. I should know. "I'm a musician myself. Like I said, I hate when talent goes ignored."

Richard perked up a little, though the cynical look on his face didn't change. "What do you play?"

"Everything, really." He snorted. "Well, fourteen instruments, at last count."

The cynicism vanished. "You're not kidding me, are you? You're serious."

"I wouldn't lie about music."

"How'd you learn that many?"

"I've had a lot of time on my hands."

"Do you play violin?"

"I love the violin."

"Me too," Richard said, a little too fast. "I mean, the sound is far out. You can't get the emotion out of a piano the way you can with a violin."

I smiled shrewdly. "You can if you play it right."

Richard inspected me again. "What'd you have in mind?"

* * *

We left the cafe with our drinks untouched and went to Richard's hall. There was a monitor guarding the entrance, but he was on the lookout for girls and barely afforded me a second glance. It was a handsome building, laid out in dark wood and brick, which put one to mind of an old English school like Eton.

Richard unlocked a room on the third floor. "Home sweet home," he remarked. "C'mon in."

Home was a cozy little nook with a twin bed and walls covered by team pennants, photographs of exotic locales and posters from an art exhibit at the Met in New York. The floor looked as if a library had sneezed all over it. I immediately noticed a few slim volumes by Kerouac and Ginsberg, and on a very messy desk, some music records from Little Richard and Fats Domino. I kept my hands in my pockets and didn't touch anything, merely observed. There was a lot to observe. It was hard to see the walls, they were so covered with words and images, but it was impossible to miss the stack of biology textbooks peeking out from under the bed, untouched and forgotten.

Richard snatched a violin case off the bed. "Let's go."

"Alright," I said, and we swept back out the door.

Princeton has numerous padded practice rooms for its music students. We immediately locked ourselves in one with a beautiful Steinway. I seated myself in a chair and folded one leg over the other while Richard tuned the violin. "Will you stop doing that?" he asked. "You're making me nervous."

"Doing what?"

"Sitting like ... that."

"I'm sitting wrong now, am I?"

"You look all serious and regal. It's putting me off."

"I'm afraid I can't help being regal."

"Can you try not to be, just this once?"

The boy was starting to annoy me, but a king can afford to be magnanimous. I softened my posture, relaxed into the chair a bit, and rested my hands on one leg. "Better?"

The tension went out of Richard's body like a loosened string, and he tried to smile a little. "Yeah. Uh, do you have any requests?"

"Whatever you like."

That threw him a bit. Clearly, he expected me to make more demands of him, but he recovered quickly. Richard took up his bow and began to play.

I wasn't at all prepared. I thought the boy might be good - Walt had clearly seethed with envy at the mere mention of him. But when he played Bach's Partita No. 2 in D minor, something locked away in my chest started to hurt. If I had a soul, you could say it awakened. When Richard played, it felt as if a part of me began to lift out of my body and expand to touch the distant horizon.

That particular piece from Bach can go on for thirty minutes. I stopped Richard after ten and cleared my throat. "Very good."

"I can go longer," he said, concerned.

"You did a wonderful job, for a wonderful piece," I assured him. My voice sounded weak even to my own ears.

"Would you rather hear something I wrote?"

"You compose, too?"

"Sometimes."

"Let's hear it."

So Richard played a lovely tune. It started out slow and sad, thoughtful even ... then quickly turned into a lively beat more suitable for a waltz, though I can't imagine any mortal capable of dancing to a tune that fast. I made him stop playing that piece, too.

"Why do you keep doing that?" he demanded.

"Where did you learn to play?" I countered, leaning forward in my chair.

Richard was clearly taken aback by my intensity. "I had a tutor to start me off in grade school. I just continued after that, I guess."

"What happened to your tutor?"

"She didn't like teaching me, said I was a pain in the ass. I think the final straw was when I couldn't learn to read music. She gave up on me after that."

I froze. "You can't read music?"

"Nope."

"How in the world do you compose if you can't read or write music?"

"I ... I just make it up in my head, I guess, and then I play it until my hands remember it."

I ruffled my hair with both hands and grunted. "Unbelieveable. No wonder Walt hates your guts." I leaned back in my chair again and admired the uncertain young man before me. With a leather jacket, he could have easily been mistaken for a greaser, though in the UK they called them rockers or ton-up boys. He was shorter than me, but he hadn't finished growing yet, that was obvious. He'd outstrip me in height soon enough, and while he didn't have an extraordinary amount of muscle, his shoulders were broad and well defined. He was the type of fellow who would bulk up quickly in a gym. "How old are you, Richard?"

His chin turned up - a little defiantly, I thought. He had a strong, masculine jaw that could have stopped a bullet. "I turned twenty in August."

"Do you want to major in music?"

"More than anything."

"Did you even  ** _try_**  to apply to a music conservatory?"

"Some guy from Juilliard came to my high school once. Tried to get me to audition. My dad said no."

"No? But he paid for a music teacher."

Richard sat across from me in another chair and slouched back, fingers interlaced over his stomach. The violin lay nestled in the open case next to him. "That was my elementary school. My parents would never pay for a private tutor. Mom loved music, but Dad said he'd be dead and six feet under before one of his offspring became a musician. He wants me to be a doctor. My brother's a lawyer, so law was already taken. Dad thinks of his kids like trading cards. You can't have a duplicate, you know."

 _The biology department can keep him!_  Walt's venom filtered up from my memory, and along with it, an image of science textbooks lying forgotten in the corner of Richard's room. "Is your father a doctor?"

"Of course," he said, bored. "Can't have his kids going off and developing their own identity now, can he?"

"Your mother wouldn't back you?"

"Mom's ... she can't help. I tried bringing up music to Dad last year and he blew up. Said music was for paupers and faggots. He won't budge."

 _Charming._  "What will you do, Richard Ellingson, once you're in the music department?"

He looked askance at me. "You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?"

I had a madcap gleam in my eye, I'm certain of it. Richard had to look away again. "Oh my, yes."

* * *

I wasn't unknown among the Princeton faculty in the fall of 1957. By then, I'd been to a number of dinners on campus, and of course the trustees remembered me fondly for my recent generous donation. No one was quite sure of my relation to the university. I was not listed in the registrar's office. None of the alumni recognized me. I did not hold a degree from any of the departments, nor did any faculty member ever recall having me in their classroom.

I was, simply put, a successful businessman with a deep reverence for higher education and an inexplicable fascination with the university's library collections, in which I whiled away many happy hours. If I was considered a little eccentric, well, my generosity and charm made that easy to forgive. More than a few trustees had my contact information in their Rolodexes, and their secretaries always put my calls through without any questions.

A week after Richard and I met, the trustees invited certain members of the Princeton community to a dinner. The invitation arrived in the Underground on stiff cream-coloured paper with gilt lettering. A goblin delivered it to me while I was tending to my rose garden.

"Lucky," I murmured, not turning from my work, "fetch Wicket and Skeet. I've a job for the three of you. Mind you don't mess it up or I shall bog the lot of you."

The little goblin imp squeaked and vanished with a crack of thunder.

* * *

"You want me to have dinner with the president of the university?" Richard sounded as if I'd just asked him to grow wings and fly. Which, honestly, is not nearly as difficult as mortals would have you believe.

"Yes," I said. I stood in the doorway of his room, hair slicked back and fitted in a very nice tux, looking like I'd stepped straight out of  _The Great Gatsby_. Cornelius had starched the hell out of the collar. I tapped at a slim gold watch at my wrist and made an impatient sound. "And you'll notice time is ticking, so let's go."

Richard stood barefoot and aghast in the center of his room. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and the outline of a pack of Lucky Strikes was clearly visible under the rolled-up sleeve over his bicep. In one hand he was reading from a book on Tolstoy. In the background, his record player softly churned out a song from the Chords:  _Oh, life could be a dream, if I could take you up in paradise up above, if you would tell me I'm the only one that you love, life could be a dream, sweetheart ..._

"David, you're nuts," he declared.

I shut the door behind me and held up the garment bag I'd slung over my shoulder. "Do you really want to say that to the man who's going to change your destiny? Put this on."

"I've never met the president in my life. I don't even belong to an eating club."

I pulled the book from his grip, tossed it onto the bed, then tossed the garment bag at Richard. He almost dropped it. "Why should you let that stop you? Shut up and get dressed."

"Dav-"

"No."

"But-"

"Later. If you're not dressed in two minutes, I'll be forced to punish you." I adjusted my cufflinks as I said it and wondered what sort of punishment would work on someone like Richard. I hadn't the foggiest. It was best not to let him know that, however. I'd learned from dealing with goblins that empty threats worked wonders as long as the recipients didn't know any better.

Richard looked ready to argue, but I ignored him and went outside to wait in the corridor.

One minute and fifty seconds later, the door opened. Richard stood fidgeting in the tuxedo I'd arranged for him, looking handsome enough except for the bare feet and an unshaven face. I'd forgotten about that. I stripped the jacket and shirt off and frog marched him to the bathroom, where he shaved off several days' worth of stubble and I softened his hair with brilliantine and combed it back along his scalp into a sleek side-part.

"Happy?" he asked, though by now there was some humour in his tone.  ** _Happy?_**  I was thrilled. The boy was gone; I'd finally found the man.

"Very," I said. "You actually look respectable. Try not to muck it up."

He struggled with the cravat, which I had to tie for him. He didn't have any dress shoes at all. I pretended to go borrow a pair from the RA but returned with shoes magicked up for me by my goblins, who were just as fond of stealing from wardrobes as they were from nurseries. Then Richard didn't have any dress socks, so I had to go fetch some of those. Honestly, I don't know how he survived as long as he did without me. The man might have been a music prodigy but as far as practical matters were concerned, he could be an idiot. I was starting to wonder if it was safe to leave him alone in a room without clear instructions as to where the exit was, but when I said so, he swore at me. Ungrateful.

"Now then," I said as Richard patted himself down, "we're going to the Ivy Club, one of the finest-" I plucked the cigarette straight out of his mouth as he attempted to light it and crushed it beneath my shoe amid furious protest. "-eating clubs anywhere. I trust you can behave yourself. No smoking, no cussing, no chasing girls, is that understood? Exercise some restraint and common sense. If that's too difficult for you, just keep your mouth shut. In fact, you should start right now. Alright?"

"Alright, Jesus! Shit!"

* * *

Strictly speaking, the eating clubs of Princeton are privately-owned and have no affiliation with the university. They started as an alternative to a dining hall and a supplement to social life when Greek letter fraternities were outlawed in the 1850s.

Every year, new underclassmen had to apply to their favourite club for membership and, although there were a dozen clubs in 1957, there were only three considered to be the crème de la crème. Ivy Club was one of these. Its alumni include Governors, Senators, Pulitzer Prize winners, an executive director of the CIA, a Saudi Foreign Minister, a White House Chief of Staff, too many CEOs to list, and President Woodrow Wilson.

Besides regular meals, eating clubs like Ivy are prime venues for events. Until the mid-20th century, formalwear was required. Membership fees averaged $1,100 per annum depending on the club ... and that was in 1957 dollars.

I needn't have admonished Richard about chasing girls, really. At this point in history, the eating clubs were male only. No women, no blacks, no Jews, no exceptions - though perhaps a Steinberg could squeak through if he changed his name to Smith, or was otherwise exceptionally charming. It reflects rather poorly on an institution when even a goblin king finds it too elitist.

"Richard, why don't you belong to an eating club?" I asked him as we approached the front doors.

"I didn't go through with bicker," he answered. "Never even applied."

"Whyever not?"

"Dad wanted me to."

"Is everything you do a dig at the old man?"

He actually thought about it. "Not  ** _everything_**. I didn't see the point in paying a fortune to eat finger sandwiches or make friends. I can make friends anywhere."

"Hmm."

"You're judging me again. You've been doing it since we met."

"I am. You should be used to it by now, considering how often you ruffle people's feathers."

"That's not fair! The greatest writers and musicians broke all the rules. Everybody loves them for it."

"If memory serves," I said, "genius is often reviled during its lifetime. Furthermore, you have to know the rules before you can break them. Fix your tie."

Bless him, he didn't grumble too much at this, and then suddenly the doors were opening and the doorman was ushering us inside.

* * *

Housed in a mansion on Prospect Avenue, Ivy Club remains easily identifiable even today by the 19th century gothic architecture. Once you're inside, you'll be escorted past a ground-floor library to one of many eating rooms. The main decor includes red sandstone and exposed timber. People say it's charming, in an old world way.

The butler dropped us off in a dark-paneled room where a mounted boar's head stood guard over a crackling fireplace. The tables were set with linen, silver, and candelabras, and the dying autumn light still managed to trickle through the leaded windows. The effect was stark and leeched the colour from the walls.

"David!"

We spun on our heels as a group of individuals entered the room behind us. They were dressed identically to a man in dinner jackets and ties, very spiffy. The men were trustees and a few favourite professors - honoured guests of the undergraduates for the evening.

A dark-haired man with spectacles and a boyish face hurried over to me. "David, I thought it was you. It's been a dog's age, hasn't it?"

I chuckled as we shook hands. "Feels like yesterday, Robert. No longer teaching classics, I hear?"

"No, apparently some people thought I'm better suited to the presidency. I hope my Latin classes weren't  ** _that_**  bad."

"Robert, I'd like to introduce you to Richard." I afforded the young man at my side a warm little smile. "My secretary."

I'll give Richard this: when he wanted, he had a stellar poker face. He kept his eyes fixed on the new president of Princeton and smiled as they shook hands, but not too much. "Mister President, I'm sorry I never took your Latin class."

The president laughed. It was a very bright laugh. He was the youngest president elected since the Revolutionary War. At thirty-seven, he was much more in touch with the student body and, since he started the job over the summer, had announced grand plans for the school. No one knew it at the time, but Robert F. Goheen would also be responsible for opening Princeton to women in 1969 and aggressively pursuing people of colour for admission. He supported student protests during the 60s, and he even attacked the exclusivity of the eating clubs, which earned him more than a few enemies.

But that would be years away yet. At that moment, standing in Ivy, he was a young and untried president with much to prove. And he was charmed by the earnest newcomer before him, who had come with my recommendation.

There was some chaos after that as the undergraduate members of the Ivy arrived, and with them a very confused club president, a tall youth with freckles and a pout. He stared at Richard as if struggling to remember an old acquaintance without wanting to show it. Finally he asked Richard what brought him to the Club - the unspoken question being, "Who the hell are you and how did you get in?" No one ever got past the front doors without a membership or an invitation.

"You wouldn't deny a gentleman his secretary on the busiest night of the year, would you?" I said this in a jovial way, but my gaze was hard, and the young man quickly said no, of course not. I made a point after that of summoning the butler and informing him in everyone's presence that I expected a deal to close tonight in Zurich and that if any phone calls arrived from my solicitor during dinner to please alert my secretary at once. And that settled the matter.

"What does a secretary do for ... someone like you?" Richard whispered as we all took our seats.

"Make me look good," I whispered back.

"Ah."

"... Don't strain yourself."

Richard gave me an insulted look that was far too mocking to be genuine. He was trying not to laugh.

It was a full course dinner: baked brie and oysters, and then a salad course, and then consommé and poached salmon, and then lamb in a mint sauce and sirloin of beef with chateau potatoes, and then roast squab and cress with a cold asparagus vinaigrette. And then when everyone was tired of eating the butler returned with an enormous Waldorf pudding, and a maid followed with a tray of chocolate éclairs, and a number of the men decided they weren't that full after all.

Richard surprised me on two fronts. First, he always knew which fork to use. And second, he was not only able to follow the conversation but add to it. He said little, listened much, and only interrupted once or twice to ask a smart question. The other young men spoke little to Richard, but it was clear they found him curious enough, and the older men liked how he listened to them and made them feel important. Not a bad show.

When everyone was finished eating, one of the trustees sighed and suggested everyone retire to another room for a cigar. Of course none of the students would refuse such a request, so everyone dutifully filed into an adjoining room, where we found another crackling fireplace and a number of leather backed chairs.

Coffee was passed around and cigars lit, though the only men who ended up smoking were the trustees - a trio of almost identical fellows with portly builds and the collective air of 19th century robber barons. And everyone agreed it had been an exceptional dinner and that the gentlemen of the Ivy Club were exceptional hosts.

"Too bad Walt didn't come tonight," sniffed one of the robber baron trustees.

"Heath Walton?" asked the president of the university. "Doesn't he always come to these events?"

The student president of the Ivy blanched. "I don't know what happened to him, sir. He accepted the invitation."

"Probably got himself caught up in some emergency," growled another trustee. "You know how Walt is. He's married to his work."

At my side, Richard sipped his coffee and said nothing, but he'd stiffened at the mention of the hated professor. And I? I smiled politely and pretended that I knew nothing about Walt's absence, or the punctured tires on the Chevrolet in his driveway, or the flooding sink in his kitchen, or the shredded tuxedo in his closet, or the goblins I'd sent to do all of those things. The man would have been too busy doing damage control to leave his house.

"So, Richard," said the president, turning to my secretary, "have you declared yet?"

Richard momentarily looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry, but he rallied quickly. "I'm in the middle of switching to Music, actually."

"Oh? What do you play?"

"Violin."

"Richard is quite the accomplished violinist." My voice carries far, when I will it. "Juilliard wanted him, but he decided to come to Princeton."

"Is that so?" said one of the trustees. Several of the professors, and a fair number of the students, had also perked up at this.

"You needn't be so modest, Richard," I insisted, "it's all true. I don't suppose you gentlemen would like some entertainment this evening? We've had enough sitting and eating and talking, don't you think?"

"I don't have a violin-" Richard started to say, but then the butler procured one - out of thin air, it seemed, as if by magick. Even the butler was surprised, but he recovered quickly and offered the instrument to the trembling young man. Well, no one saw his trembling but me. I'd developed a sharp eye for that sort of thing.

"Sounds marvelous, let's hear it," said the president of the university. There were supportive murmurs from the faculty and a good number of the students, who were eager for something fun to happen - be it good music or someone publicly humiliating himself.

Richard's eyes sought me out in the crowd. I nodded firmly and frowned, making it clear that I would brook no refusal on this. He bit his lip, shuffled a bit, brought the violin to his chin, and drew the bow.

I'm not sure what the gathered men expected. Certainly the younger lads half-hoped to see Richard wipe out spectacularly. In any case, they probably assumed a decent performance from someone who was used to playing at family gatherings.

Richard played a collection of Vivaldi's concertos -  _L'Estro Armonico, Op. 3_  - perhaps the most influential music to come out of 18th century Europe. It's quite beautiful. If heaven needed a soundtrack to welcome the saved, I'm sure Vivaldi would have provided it. The concertos are that good: fast, lively, upbeat.

As soon as Richard began, a few eyebrows around the room went up. Some men relaxed in their chairs while others leaned in to whisper to their friends. Within minutes, any lingering whispers died out. All eyes were rooted on the newcomer standing before the fireplace, clearly lost to the world as he played. From the moment he began, Richard forgot his audience. It was just him and the music in that room.

The entire collection could easily take two hours to perform. Richard played for twenty minutes. No one said a word. Even the wankers who'd wanted him to fail were mesmerized. When Richard finished, more than a few of them jumped up to applaud. The older men weren't as enthusiastic about jumping up, but they smiled and clapped from their leatherback chairs and remarked to each other that this was certainly the sort of young man that Princeton needed more of.

"Well!" said the president of the university. "Words won't do justice here. Your talent speaks strongly enough for you, Richard. Who are you studying with in the department?"

Richard shifted awkwardly. "I'm taking music history with Wa ... with Professor Walton this semester, but I haven't taken any performance classes yet. Technically I'm still registered for Biology, so most of my courseload is science."

"It's early enough in the semester to drop, isn't it?" asked a trustee.

"It certainly is," said a professor. "What's the hold up?"

I leapt to the rescue. "We're still waiting on Walt's signature to approve Richard's change of major. Walt's been  ** _so_**  busy this semester. You understand."

"All the same, it won't do to let things get backed up," said the president. "It's too bad Walt couldn't be here tonight. I'll send him a note on Monday, see if we can hurry things along. What do you think, Richard?"

Richard's grip on the violin tightened so hard that I feared he'd break something. "Sir! I mean, yes, that would be very helpful, thank you."

The president laughed. "I thought so. Let's keep in touch."

* * *

"How the hell did you do that?"

I was strolling across the Ivy Club's vast front lawn, hands in my pockets and almost whistling, by the time Richard caught up to me. He sounded breathless, as if he'd just run a marathon, and I gave him a look that I'm sure could have been infuriating: just a little too cocksure with a dash of teasing.

Richard didn't get annoyed though. " ** _How?_** " he demanded. "No one ... I mean ...  ** _no one_**  ..."

"I'm not no one," I said lightly, not breaking my stride. I glanced upward. "Oh, look, you can see the Pleiades tonight."

"David-" Richard danced in front of me, forced me to stop. "-you just got the president of Princeton and half the Board of Trustees to make Walt's life a living hell until he accepts me into the music department. Nobody just  ** _does_**  that."

I looked at him archly. "As I said. I'm hardly nobody."

"But  ** _why?_** "

"Nothing is sadder in this world than ignored talent. Didn't I say that already?"

"Yeah, but-"

I turned on him quite suddenly. "Tonight you played my secretary, Richard, and my secretary's job is to make me look good. I'd say you succeeded admirably on that front, thank you ever so much. Got a smoke?"

He looked momentarily shamefaced, for I knew he'd sneaked a pack of Lucky Strikes in his back pocket. Had known it since we'd left the halls. But then he pulled out two cigarettes (one for me and one for him) and lit them (he lit mine first), and then we stood on the lawn and watched the stars as we let the smoke settle in our lungs. Or rather, he watched the stars and I watched him. The angles of his face were sharper with his hair slicked back, though nowhere near as sharp as mine, and the nails on his fingers shone like mother of pearl. He had a strong jaw but delicate hands, which was a rather funny mismatch, but it suited him. His expression was pensive and confused, the usual intensity of his eyes contracted to a pinpoint. I didn't mind watching him, though when he finally looked back at me, I pretended to have been watching the stars.

"Thank you," was all he said, though he looked like he had more to say and the words were failing to find their way to his mouth.

I winked and resumed walking.

"You said genius is never understood in its own time," he called after me. "You think I'm a genius?"

"I do," I said without turning.

There was a long pause, and then: "Do you like rock music?"

That made me stop and look back at him. "What?"

"Rock 'n roll. Do you dig it?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "What'd you have in mind?"

And my Richard, he just smiled.

* * *

_To be continued_


	13. Détente

i like my body when it is with your  
body. It is so quite new a thing.  
Muscles better and nerves more.  
i like your body. i like what it does,  
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine  
of your body and its bones, and the trembling  
-firm-smooth ness and which i will  
again and again and again  
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,  
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz  
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes  
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new.

-ee cummings

* * *

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

-Ernest Hemingway, _A Farewell to Arms_

* * *

13.

Richard's idea of a good time involved a Trenton dance hall that reeked of cigarettes and piss.

The bouncers were useless. I sneaked us past them without a second glance, but with a fair amount of swearing from the queue that snaked out the door. There was another set of door guardians after that, but they let us through once Richard showed a brace of tickets, and we elbowed our way down a long corridor and into a massive pit before a stage. It was a young audience, and very white. The black patrons had been banished to the rafters above. Public spaces were still segregated then.

The air crackled with something undefineable, and for once it had nothing to do with me. I felt exciteable and itchy, that curious sensation you get under the tongue when adrenalin hits the system. I imagine the sensation is akin to that experienced by racehorses waiting for the bell.

"Isn't it great?" Richard was happier than I'd ever seen him. He was flushed and alive. We'd traded our tuxedos for casual clothes, but we still sweated under the overhead lights.

"What are we waiting for?" I asked. The audience pushed us toward the stage, and on instinct I shot out a hand and grabbed Richard by the elbow. He laughed at my alarm.

"You'll see," he said.

Suddenly the lights turned down, the crowd cheered, and the curtains retreated. A dozen suited black men stood there in perfect formation with saxophones, and another fellow behind them on drums. And before them all, their leader, a small gentleman with big hair and a pencil thin mustache. He stood next to a piano and microphone, and the audience cheered harder as he smiled and waved.

He had the brightest smile I've ever seen in a mortal. I looked around for the piano bench where he was going to sit, but I didn't see one.

"Good evening, New Jersey," he said into the mic, and the audience went wild. I mean **_wild_**. This was years before the Beatles arrived on American shores, before musicians became gods in their own right. When the people around me exploded again, I flinched.

That little man and his band started to play - and I tell you truly that I had never heard anything like it before or since. He never sat down, and let me say, playing piano upright takes a lot of skill. And then he **_sang_** \- oh, how he sang. _Tutti Frutti_ to start, and then _Lucille_ , and _Long Tall Sally_ , recent radio hits I all recognized. I'd never seen the man in the flesh. My mouth kept opening wider and wider as he sang louder and louder. I couldn't believe such a big sound could come out of such a small person. I felt as if I'd heard God.

The people around us went mad, of course. They clapped and shimmied, then they danced with each other, and after a few songs the black folks trickled down from the nosebleed seats and started dancing with the white folks in the pit. Management either didn't care or had given up on crowd control by then. The music made the floor vibrate beneath our feet. It was hard to focus on anything, it was so **_loud_** , and men and women danced like fools.

The promise of sex hung heavy in the air. The last time I remembered an atmosphere like this was centuries before, during the Irish fertility rites. It felt like home again.

Richard was dancing across the floor with a young woman who looked like she wanted to crawl all over him. They were vibrant and alive. It was fun to look at them, but by then another woman had touched my elbow, and I was quickly dancing with her. There was no order to the crowd. People moved with the music in groups, like a tidal wave.

We danced for a very long time - until the sweat poured off us all and women started throwing their clothes at the vocalist, who sang through number after number with no sign of flagging. His stamina was truly shocking. There were three encores, and at the end the band had to hustle off the stage before the crowd pulled them into the pit. It was a madhouse. Richard and I ran out a side door into the alley and half collapsed against a brick wall, laughing hysterically into our hands, as if we weren't surrounded by garbage and noxious fumes steaming from the gutter.

It took a minute to compose ourselves. But once we did, Richard sighed and said, " ** _That_** was rock n' roll."

* * *

A cab took us back to Princeton. It was midnight and still early fall, and we had nowhere to be, so we walked aimlessly for a while. Princeton's streets are well lit and, although Richard didn't know it, his companion was the stuff of nightmares for any bogeyman, human or supernatural, which dared raise its head. We were the safest pair of late night pedestrians anywhere on Earth or under it.

We walked slowly with our hands in our pockets like errant schoolboys. Richard wouldn't stop humming, and after a long period of silence between us, he said: "You know, I really think everything's going to work out."

I responded by humming a happy little tune under my breath.

"What is that?" Richard asked. "It sounds like a song I should know."

"Shostakovich. I enjoy his waltzes. They're lovely."

"How do you know so many things?"

"You will too, when you're as old as me."

"How old are you? Like, 35?"

I laughed a deep belly laugh. "You're lucky I'm not a woman. I might take offense at that question."

"Tch, you wouldn't be as fun if you were a chick." He meant to be glib, but it came out a little flat. He suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if his own joke had been laced with poison somehow and he was only just realizing it.

"It's a good thing I'm a man then," I said with a wink.

Richard looked at his shoes and said he'd better get back to the halls. I said it was long after curfew and the front doors would be locked, but he only grinned and pulled from his pocket a key that he'd nicked off some unsuspecting monitor. As I'd come to discover, Richard had nimble fingers and could be a right menace under certain circumstances.

"Come find me this week so we can celebrate me getting into the music department!" he called as he walked up the long drive to the campus.

I was smoking another fag by then and raised an eyebrow in cool disapproval. "My dear lad, I don't chase people."

"So show up or not, you old pain in the ass. See if I care."

There was no maliciousness in this statement. Before I could properly reply, he'd already climbed the university's wrought black iron gates like a spider monkey and vanished.

* * *

Of course, I showed up the very next day.

It was Monday, and I found Richard early enough to be there when he got the news that he'd been accepted into the music department. We celebrated by going to the practice rooms and playing piano - or rather, I played piano while Richard watched, dumbfounded by the speed of my hands. Mozart's sonatas are so happy and light, perfect for a celebration, so I played those for a while. Finally I bade Richard join me on the bench. He regarded the piano like a terrified med student expected to perform open heart surgery on orientation day, but I wouldn't have any of that.

"This is Middle C," I said, tapping the key in question. "You'll always find it in the middle next to these two black keys. If you're ever lost, look for the Middle C, alright? Now put your thumb on Middle C, and rest your other fingers on the white keys. There you go. Now press C and D repeatedly while I play."

And that's how Richard got started on the piano, though we didn't stop with Mozart. Very quickly we were playing Boogie Woogie with Richard handling the bass chords and laughing our heads off the entire time as we ran slipshod over the Steinway's keys like a pair of drunks.

Walt found us giggling like rambunctious teenagers and playing the sort of jazz club music he loathed. Oh, and the room stank of cigarette smoke. Not my finest moment.

"How did you do it?" he thundered. We stopped dead and looked to the door, where Walt stood fuming.

I pulled the cigarette from my mouth and blew. "Walt, do come in. _Mi casa es tu casa_."

" _ **How?**_ " When Walt was angry, he didn't yell - he **_seethed_**. He practically _**oozed**_ over the threshold and rolled across the room with the force of a volcanic ash cloud. "Do you know what happened this morning, Ellingson? I was informed by the president that you were to be admitted into this department **_post haste_**. Why is the president fighting your battles for you?"

"Probably because he needed to, Walt," I said quite primly, aware that the young man at my side had begun to shrink.

Walt whirled on me. "And **_you!_** Don't think I don't know you had something to do with this! You and your **_flamboyant_** skulking about this campus, and your kissing up to anyone who'll have you. Don't think you've fooled anyone, Mr. Goodman, because you certainly haven't fooled me!"

My eyes narrowed. "Tread carefully, you old fool. I am not a man you want for an enemy."

I hadn't moved a hair, but the temperature dropped. Walt paused, more out of shock than anything. He'd seen something Not Human in my gaze, and the lizard part of his brain was no doubt warning him to run away. Indeed, for just a moment, Walt looked frightened. There was something alien in his eyes that I didn't understand. Hate, to be sure. Frustration, of course. We'd just turned his own power trip back on him. That was to be expected. But there was something else that I couldn't name. It was most strange.

When he next spoke, his voice was venom. "You're all in league. Damn you! It won't be long until this community sees this brat for what he is, and he's expelled. You'll see I'm right."

I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Usually when the villain is defeated, Walt, it's his job to storm offstage. Don't you think it's past your cue?"

Walt looked like he was about to explode. I truly thought for a moment that he was going to choke. His face blew up like a great overripe tomato, and then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. He nearly broke the door off its hinge when he slammed it.

At my side, Richard let loose a tremendous gasp, like a man who'd been buried alive. "Was that a warmup or a final curtain call, do you think?"

"Walt's a sore loser," I said, affording him a warm little smile. "He'll get over himself soon enough."

"I hope so." Richard sounded so sad when he said it. I looked at him sharply, without any idea what to say.

* * *

Richard dropped the last of his science classes. By the end of the week, he was completely engaged with music. His new professors loved him. Within the month, he was invited to play a solo piece at an upcoming concert. By the end of the semester, his new advisor was suggesting internships in New York.

Richard continued to attend rock concerts. I went to a few more with him. Sometimes he brought his friends, none of whom attended Princeton. They were all childhood buddies, or lads he met at street races. Despite his smart aleck attitude, or perhaps because of it, Richard was quite popular among people his age.

Sometimes we went weeks without seeing each other, and Richard would look up while studying at the library or eating in the canteen to find me sitting across from him, smiling as if I'd never been away. I took great pleasure in startling him, and then he'd yell at me for doing so and demand to know how long I'd been there. Life has its cheap, vicarious little pleasures.

We'd talk then, or Richard would talk on and on about everything that was going on, and the fantastic things he was learning, and the people he was meeting, and the girls he was dating, and I'd nod and cant my head to the side like a bird and listen. I wouldn't smile but I wouldn't frown. My face was a perfect mask, as humans would say. I never betrayed a single emotion, though what I often thought was:

_Why does he get so upset about so and so? Clearly she's not good for him. And why does he care about such and such? Why does he not just go do something else, if it'll make him happier? His life is too short as it is to worry about bad friends or doing things that don't bring him any joy._

No one ever listens to the immortal, of course. Richard never asked for my opinion, so I never gave it. I just listened. And every time Richard would conclude speaking, he'd sigh as if someone had let the air out of him and look enormously pleased with himself, as if the sole act of my listening had given him deep insight into the meaning of the universe and he felt more confident about whatever course of action he was going to take.

Then Richard would be very happy, and I'd be very satisfied.

* * *

"You can't do this!" Richard exclaimed. "You can't just show up out of the blue whenever you like and spook me!"

I sat on Richard's bed, one leg crossed over the other, very devil-may-care. He'd just walked into his locked room to find me waiting for him. "Why not?"

He almost exploded. "Because you can't! And I don't know what you've been up to the last two months, but you know, it'd be nice if you let me know you weren't dead. I don't have any way of contacting you. You just show up whenever you like."

I unfolded my long limbs and stood up very quickly, which made Richard take a step back, and I remember too late that I'd moved a little too fast for a human. "You feel I'm overstepping your boundaries. That I'm disrespecting you."

I'd come to stand very close to Richard then, and he stared at me, mesmerized. When I stopped speaking, he blinked and looked away. "I ... yeah."

"Very well. I shall strive to do better."

"What the hell does that mean?"

I handed him a business card printed on stiff paper. To any discerning human eye, it looked like I'd produced it with a fancy flourish, but I'd really created it with magick out of thin air. It showed my alias - and a phone number and address. "It means you're absolutely right. You should be able to contact me whenever you like, instead of waiting for me to show up at my discretion. We are friends, are we not?"

"... yeah, sure."

I clapped my gloved hands. "Excellent! Then it's settled."

"I still wanna know how you got into my room."

"A magician never reveals his secrets."

"You're a pisser, you know that?"

* * *

At any one time, I may have a dozen addresses under a dozen fake names - all safe houses out of which I can operate in the human world. Richard showed up at my Princeton address later that week. It was in a building downtown, next to a series of little shops and delis. I opened the door with a baby on one hip, which admittedly looked ridiculous in the fine tailored suit I wore.

Richard stood on the doorstep in a leather jacket and jeans, looking like the lost cousin of James Dean. When he saw the baby, his brow shot up. " _ **You've**_ been busy."

"Babysitting," I said simply. "Come in."

The office was a nicely furnished townhouse. Richard whistled as I led him inside. "Cool digs, man. You don't do things by halves, do you?"

"Never. Sit. I'll make us tea."

"It's cool, I got class. I wanted to ask you a favour."

 _Use your words, the goblins said._ "Oh?"

"Yeah, you, uh, wanna come to dinner at my family's house this weekend? They've been pestering me to meet my friends."

I cocked my head in confusion and jiggled the squirming baby at my hip. "I don't know if your parents had someone like me in mind. Perhaps your other friends would be more appropriate."

"Nah, all my buddies are greasers. Dad would shit a brick - sorry." He nodded apologetically at the cooing baby, who clearly had no idea what he'd said. "You're normal and proper. They'd get along much better with you, trust me."

"Very well then. I accept."

"Cool, man. Uh, Saturday at four? We do dinner pretty early."

"With pleasure."

"Great. Really. Thanks."

"Richard," I said, "what are you hiding from me?"

"Nothing! Nothing."

* * *

"We're so proud of Richard's accomplishments at the university. He's going to make a first rate doctor."

"Is he now?" I shot a look at Richard that could have driven nails. Richard covered his meek smile by taking a drink.

"He'll be the second member of this family to do his residency at Columbia Presbytarian," continued his father. Doctor Ellingson was a tall man with steel grey hair and the strong jaw one expected on cowboys in a Spaghetti Western. He was rail thin. One got the impression that he spent too much time talking to bother with eating. The Ellingson family lived in an impressive house with an even more impressive dining room that must have entertained many guests. It was clear that the father like to play host.

"You forgot about Uncle Jack, Pop," said Jimmy, who was the spitting image of the father in a no-nonsense suit.

"Good catch, son, that's right. Jack started off at Columbia, too. Pass the potatoes. Now, Mr. Goodman, Richard tells me you're his tutor."

"I am."

"Biology?"

"Whatever I'm needed to teach."

"Ah, excellent. Glad to see Richard's on top of things." He nodded approvingly at his youngest son. "I'm looking forward to seeing that report card. Let's hope those grades have picked up since last year, eh?"

Richard smiled wordlessly and took another drink.

"James?" a tired, querelous old voice called from the foyer. It was a sad voice that one expected from mourners at a funeral. It sounded rusty and unused, as if it had been locked away for a century in a forgotten room. I was startled; I hadn't believed there to be anyone else in the house, save for the cook. At the sound of the voice, both Richard and Jimmy jumped up from the table like pheasant flushed out during a hunt.

"Stop!" barked Doctor Ellingson, who nodded at Jimmy. The eldest son swept silently from the room to deal with whoever it was. Richard slowly sat down again, and I sensed resentment from him, as if a bandaid had been ripped off an old wound.

I was still reeling from that voice. That voice was searching for its dreams. I'd felt the tug. You can't fool a Goblin King. We know too much about desire and loss.

"And you're a businessman, too?" Doctor Ellingson broke me from my reverie.

"Yes," I said, blinking. "Acquisitions."

"That must be exciting."

"Actually, it's dreadful. Where is your washroom?"

Doctor Ellingson startled at my flippancy but recovered quickly. "Of course. Richard, why don't you show our guest the way?"

Richard had been sitting on the edge of his chair waiting to bolt. He took off like a jackrabbit and dragged me into the foyer, where we nearly collided with his brother returning from the upper floors. It was simply an enormous house. Richard led me away from the first floor bathroom and took me upstairs. I think he just wanted to get away from everyone for a little while.

I had no interest in the washroom; I'd wanted to find that sad voice again. Richard squashed that idea and led me to his father's study. It was a large room with many degrees on the walls and brass contraptions all over the shelves. Doctor Ellingson had a hobby building toys. They were queer little things, looking like mechanical birds.

"He loves making toys," Richard lamented, "but I've never seen him play a game in my entire life. Go figure."

"You haven't told them." My voice was soft as I closely inspected the brass toys, but the accusation was unmistakeable.

Richard sagged a little. "I'm getting around to it. I just need more time."

I barked a laugh. "Time! Time is all I have, and a cheap commodity. But you? You're worm's meat in the making and you don't even see it. Your problem isn't time, Richard. No, you're a coward. Choose your destiny like a man and own your choice instead of whinging like a child."

His eyes flashed, and I knew I'd hit below the belt. "Screw you, pal. You think this is easy?"

"Nothing worth doing is easy. I never promised you it would be _**easy**_. I only said it would be worthwhile."

He had a terrible look on his face. I thought it was anger, but then I realized it was an ache, and it had nothing to do with my taunts or his family's views on his career. Richard stared at me a little too long, and the anger only surfaced when he turned away again. "You're just like them," he said bitterly.

"Don't cheapen this friendship," I snapped. "In the whole of creation, there has never been another like me."

 _Don't you see what I am?_ I was desperate to ask, but I didn't dare.

We glared at each other, wary and tired, and the silence stretched until it turned uncomfortable. Richard finally broke it. "Dad's gonna be wondering where we are," he said, and we trudged back downstairs side by side, though we might as well have been walking with a wall between us. The rest of the meal was awkward, but I don't think Doctor Ellingson noticed, so content was he to prattle on about business. He didn't even notice that Richard and I wouldn't look at each other, like a married couple in a feud.

Jimmy did. His dislike wasn't obvious, but it hovered at the corner of his mouth and turned his nose up into a slight sneer. He was bigger than Richard, with a hard edge that probably served him well in a law office. His disapproval worried me. I wondered what he'd seen in us.

"Did Richard tell you he plays the violin?" Doctor Ellingson said as supper ended and I was escorted to the door. "You should attend one of our parties sometime so you can see him perform. He's quite good."

The man was truly clueless. "I look forward to it," I said without enthusiasm.

Richard's face had gone white as an alabaster statue. For a moment I thought he was reacting to his father's words, but he was looking over my shoulder, and suddenly Jimmy was reacting with the same stone face. We turned as a group - a woman stood on the staircase. She wore a dishevelled robe, and her hair resembled a bird's nest. She looked very, very ill.

"James, your mother called," she said. "She wants to take the baby this afternoon. Who's this?"

Doctor Ellingson stiffened. "Moira, you should be in bed."

"You had a guest and you didn't call me!" she declared. "I'm the hostess of this house, aren't I? What's your name, sir?"

She proferred a hand that hadn't seen a manicure in a very long time. I took it, more out of surprise than anything. "David Goodman, ma'am."

The woman - she had to be Richard's mother - blushed with pleasure. She was a small thing, and reminded me of a sparrow, all fine bones with a fluttering heart that threatened to burst its ribcage at a moment's notice. I could feel it beating from where I stood, and with it came a riot of dreams I couldn't hope to understand. They hovered on the brink of my consciousness, a tangle of confusion and colour that one rarely saw outside of sleep. I saw different worlds clashing for attention, and a woman disconnected from reality and time.

Pity flooded my senses. A man of Doctor Ellingson's standing would have had no trouble keeping his wife out of a mental hospital. Even in 1950s America, such institutions had questionable practices, and more patients died from neglect and abuse than their illnesses. At that time, it was far better to keep a family member at home, if you could afford the expense and heartache.

"Your friend has nice manners, James," Moira said. "But for heaven's sake, don't forget about the baby. I don't trust that new nurse with Jimmy. She'll drop him on his head."

"Of course, honey," Doctor Ellingson said soothingly. "Why don't you go to bed and I'll be right up."

"He's like this all the time," Moira complained to me, but she winked and ran up the stairs with the vigour of a schoolgirl. She hadn't acknowledged either of her sons, not once. All three men looked as if a blade had gone through them.

"We tried telling her once that Jimmy had grown up," Richard said apologetically to me, "but it only upset her. We don't correct her anymore."

Doctor Ellingson harshly coughed, as if Richard had said something distasteful. I took that opportunity to graciously make my exit.

* * *

There is something terribly ironic about my envy of humans. I wield more power than you will ever know, see more worlds than you will ever see, and will likely live to see this planet's death throes when you are dust and long forgotten. And yet I cannot do something that you do every day: I cannot tell anyone my name.

There's great power in names. Share it with the wrong person and you open up yourself and your kingdom to betrayal and destruction. But on a more practical level: I cannot be easily found. A being on my level must have aliases, must have easy ways to escape at a moment's notice. I travel the world in my work and wear many masks.

And no one ( ** _no one_** ) can ever know what I am.

I am a god and a king. I can be worshipped from afar but never truly loved.

* * *

You'll rarely find buildings and monuments in sub-Saharan Africa. That's because Europeans destroyed them, after they raped and pillaged the continent of its resources and people. So African history resides on drawings and stories told by travelers passing through. Occasionally you'll find ruins of great cities, long forgotten by contemporary history books written by white men.

But I promise, these places existed: wondrous cities of great learning and industry that awed the ancient world. Benin City was one such place. In the 13th century, it boasted boulevards many times the size of the biggest roads in Europe of the time. The king's palace was supported by heavy walls, the houses shone like looking glass on a hill, and anyone with time on their hands could while away many happy hours perusing the fine galleries or markets.

The British destroyed that city in 1897 - looted it, burnt it to the ground, stamped it out. A large collection of the city's bronze art is on display at the British Museum in London, but I assure you, that exhibit was stolen from its rightful owners. A much poorer and smaller Benin City still exists, but you wouldn't guess its rich history from how it looks today.

The richest man in the history of humanity was Mansa Musa, emperor of the 14th century Mali empire. At the time of his death, he was worth the equivalent of $400 billion (US). He founded universities and the library of Timbuktu, oversaw the creation of at least 400 cities, and supplied half the world's supply of salt and gold. When he pilgrimaged to Mecca, he gave away so much gold along his route that its value in those places dropped for the next decade.

Many an awed Italian traveler returned to Europe with inspiration for his own Renaissance. 14th century Timbuktu was the Paris of the mediaeval world. It was five times the size of mediaeval London. Its streets were immaculate, and it wasn't unheard of to see buildings with windows plated in silver and gold.

Europe had been stifling in a Dark Age, its people dropping like plague rats from war and disease, its greatest scholars persecuted by religion. But other areas of the world were thriving, especially Africa and the Americas. There were many great cities, especially in what you today call Ohio and Mexico City, but none compared to Timbuktu.

Yes, I liked Timbuktu very much.

I loved a woman there. Her name was Sassouma.

 _Sassouma._ I have not spoken that name in centuries. It's strange to think of it now.

She was not royalty, but she was of the nobility, and I wore a disguise to get close to her. This is not hard to do. I can look however I wish, and most humans choose to see me in whatever form makes the most sense to them. She was a brilliant woman, Sassouma. A respected scholar, and completely ignored by a womanizing husband whose business often took him far from home. He was a fool.

Blinded by love, I made the mistake of sharing my name with Sassouma, and the true nature of what I am: a god made flesh who can walk among humans. I cannot tell you why I did this. Love made me an idiot.

She ... did not take it well. I've since come to understand how fragile the human mind is.

I was the one who found the body. I try not to think about it, or why my beloved chose suicide over me. Didn't she understand how wonderful we were together? How blessed she'd been to be loved by a god? Humans in Ireland and Egypt had begged for my embrace. There was nothing wrong about our love. She was not royalty in her world, but she would have been in mine. I would have made her a queen, had she allowed it.

That was the last time I shared the truth with anyone.

* * *

I did not hear from Richard for days after the dinner at his father's house. Perhaps he was angry. I was surprised at how much this worried me - I, a Goblin King who cared for no one else's opinions, and certainly not a whelp with a superiority complex and a smart mouth.

I paced my throne room and kicked goblins. I canceled business meetings, claiming I suffered from fatigue and needed a vacation. I took long walks in Snowdonia, perused the markets of Jaipur, and always came home frustrated. Someone wished away a baby again. I gave the girl a ridiculously easy riddle to solve just so I wouldn't have to deal with them.

My head ached. My body was restless. Nothing soothed me.

* * *

A week passed, and I finally lost it. I went to Richard's hall and knocked on his door, hating myself all the while. A king never begs. _You're not begging,_ I thought firmly. _You're checking on him to make sure he's alright._

The door to the staircase slammed shut, startling me out of my reverie. Richard was running down the corridor. He looked like a lunatic, with sopping wet clothes and a crazed look in his eyes that put one to mind of a man who's been lost in the woods for days on end. He must have run home in the rain.

He was laughing. "David!" he cried, shaking me by the shoulders. "I did it! I told them! Dad hit the roof and disowned me, but I told them!"

I grabbed his hands. "You what?"

"I told the old bastard! He flipped out. Totally out of his gourd. Jimmy yelled at me, too. Said I was a liar and a disgrace to the family. Oh my God, I can't believe I did it. I did it!" Richard opened his door as he spoke and pulled me through it. I was surprised at how clean his room was. Since his transfer to the music programme, you could now see the floor, and he'd neatly shelved all his belongings. There wasn't a science textbook in sight.

"- and then he told me to get out and that I wasn't welcome in his house anymore!" Richard was prattling on as he toed off his shoes and socks, which looked as if he'd jumped into a river. I couldn't tell if his shaking was from the laughter or the cold. Perhaps both. "I'm free, David. Oh, God. Shit." He suddenly stopped laughing and held his face in his hands. The shivering grew worse.

I meant to reassure him when I touched his shoulder. Really, I did. But Richard turned and gave me a wild look, and then he kissed me on the mouth.

It was a surprisingly nice kiss. I gasped, startled. If I'm being honest (a rarity), I think my interest in Richard hadn't been innocent from the start, but I hadn't expected anything. Perhaps a friendship, someone fun to play music with, nothing more. This was a wonderful surprise.

I recovered quickly and opened my mouth, invited him in. Richard took it with a groan, and I got a taste of tongue before he recoiled with a look of unbridled horror on his face, as if I'd punched him. "Sorry! Oh God, I'm sorry-"

He shut up when I kissed him and held the back of his head to prevent another retreat. He was trembling like a bird. I scratched my nails across his scalp, teased the tension out of him, let him know it was alright. I wanted this as much as he did.

That broke him. Richard inhaled deeply and kissed me like a man starved for answers and convinced I held every last one. I tasted cigarettes and heat. Gods only knew what he tasted on me.

I tilted his head and trailed my tongue along his jaw line. Richard moaned and bared his throat to me, so I bit him there, and pressed myself solidly against him, let him know exactly how pleased I was to have him. The feeling was mutual. We were hard and aching.

Richard shifted his hips a little, rubbing against my erection. The sensual contact was like electric sparks. It tore the breath from my lungs and made me see stars. I responded by slamming him against the wall and violently taking his mouth. I almost broke his nose. We were making ridiculous sounds - hungry, needy, excited sounds.

I got my hands under his shirt, adjusted my grip, and ripped. Buttons popped off in every direction. There was a noise I didn't recognize, a _clink_ of metal on metal. Richard was fumbling with my belt. I wanted to say something witty, wanted to say he never ceased to surprise me ... but then Richard had a solid hold on me and all higher brain function vanished. I gasped, twitching and hard in his palm, and buried my face in the crook of his neck. I wouldn't last if I looked at him.

"The bed," he said in my ear. I nodded, refusing to meet his gaze. We made an odd couple as we fumbled across the room. We didn't find the bed so much as trip over it. I hit the mattress first and Richard knocked the wind out of me when he landed on my chest.

He apologized for that, then yelped when I bit him. "You apologize too much," I said, but the acid was gone from my voice. I was raw and trembling. We were both trembling. Richard settled his weight against me and kissed me, desperate. We were a mess of hands and teeth. I wanted to undress him further, but being apart from him for even an instant was deeply distressing, as if I'd reached for a handhold on a ladder and only clutched air.

I shoved up against him with fierce urgency, pressed myself solid against the length of him, and he pressed me back into the bed with a sharp movement of his hips. We came together perfectly and the world exploded. The feeling was so intense it almost hurt, and we clung to each other as we spasmed in release. For a moment my heart shuddered and threatened to stop.

Richard choked, dazed, and stared at me in shock. When I ran a thumb over his mouth, he laved it with his tongue, and he jumped when I nipped his earlobe. Our eyes met and we giggled uncontrollably, exhausted and drunk from the other's closeness.

We lay in that bed for a long time, holding each other tight, our clothes disheveled. I'd destroyed Richard's overshirt, which now hung on him in pieces. I wasn't sure, but I thought my belt was missing, and I suddenly realized that I no longer wore a waistcoat or tie. Richard had removed them without me noticing, which said a lot about how quickly the blood flow to my upper extremities had shut off.

Our breath eventually slowed, and drowsiness set in. I felt sticky and not very nice, but my blood was singing in my veins, and I wouldn't have moved for anything.

Richard finally broke the silence with a sigh against my chest. "Um. I wasn't expecting that."

I laughed weakly and tilted his face up to meet my gaze. "Have you never done that before?"

The tips of his ears burned pink. "Not with a guy. I ... I ... no offense, but I'm not a ..."

"Homosexual?"

"F-f-faggot," he stuttered, and he broke out in nervous laughter that quickly dissolved into frantic tears, which only horrified him further. I pulled him back into my embrace then, shushing him and gently carding my fingers through his hair. Richard sobbed. It might have been worrisome under normal circumstances, but he'd had an exhausting day.

When he'd finally gotten a hold of himself, he surprised me by kissing me again, so fiercely and deep that I groaned into his mouth as if mortally wounded. "Sorry," he muttered in a voice roughened by lust and tears.

I shook him by the hair. Not hard, just enough to make him gasp. "You apologize too much," I whispered against his lips.

* * *

A few changes happened after this.

First, and most obviously, Richard was cut off from his family. Happily, the university was quick to offer him a full scholarship. (Walt was livid when he heard the news. Richard and I agreed that this was an unexpected bonus.)

Second, we began to spend every spare moment together. He visited me often at the townhouse, where I'd teach him how to cook or we'd play our instruments. He was baffled by how I sneaked past the hall monitors to spend so many nights in his bed. Part of this was due to the simple fact that the monitors were on the lookout for girls, which Richard understood. And part of it was due to being a magickal creature with a gift for slight of hand and other parlour tricks, which Richard wouldn't have understood if I'd told him. Of course, I never did.

Third, and perhaps most subtly of all, Richard blossomed in every facet of his life. Oh, he didn't see it, but I did. Without the shadow of his family's expectations looming over him, Richard threw himself whole hog into his music. He finally learned how to read sheet music and took a class on advanced composition. He was a quick study on the piano, to the surprise and delight of his professors.

He walked taller, without shame of who he was. He was rosy-cheeked, laughed often and loudly, and began befriending his classmates. I daresay this is when Richard finally felt at home in his own skin.

Gods, I loved him.

* * *

The next year passed quickly, but not uneventfully. Soon Richard was a junior, and his professors were introducing him to colleagues at the New York Philharmonic with the aim of helping him secure a job upon graduation. He had a meeting once or twice with the President of the University, who remained one of Richard's strongest supporters during his college years.

Richard became more social on campus. As he settled in, he lost a bit of his reputation as a braggart. He still went to drag races and rock concerts, but he began to feel safer around his fellow Princetonians.

The summer before his junior year, I took him to Buenos Aires and Berlin. We stayed at the historic Schlosshotel im Grunewald and went horseback riding in the nearby forest. Richard had never ridden a horse before. He looked ridiculous and adorable.

Alas, a few thorny problems remained.

He never outwardly grieved the loss of his family, though I knew their ostracism nettled him sometimes, especially in the quiet moments when he had a lot of time alone with his thoughts. It was subtle, but I knew it upset him. I was a master at reading his moods.

More troubling was the question of his sexuality. He had never fancied girls, he confessed to me one afternoon as we lay drowsing in my bed after fucking like rabbits. "I tried, really I did," he insisted. "I've known my dad expected me to be a doctor since I was eight years old, and I couldn't even do **_that_** right. I thought, if I was going to be a musician, the least I could do was bring home a nice girl and make Pop happy. Maybe it would fix everything else." He chuckled without humour. "I always knew it was pointless, ever since I got a crush on this kid in fifth grade, Tommy Becker. I thought I'd grow out of it. I was in denial."

"And now?" I murmured.

I was holding him close and cradling his throat like a precious thing. His eyes were large, limpid pools, open and raw in the sunlight filtering through the window above our heads. When I ran my thumb over his lips, he closed his eyes with a sigh. His eyelashes were suddenly wet.

"Now I don't know," he whispered hoarsely. "I love you, and that scares the hell out of me. I feel like a freak."

"You are **_not_** a freak," I hissed, and Richard ducked his head in embarassment.

The truth was, Richard's desires frightened him - and for good reason, for they made him an even bigger target than they would have today. At the time, same-sex relations were a felony in all 50 states, punishable by imprisonment and hard labour. Homosexuality was considered a mental illness and would not be removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders until 1973.

We were years before the Stonewall Riots, before openly gay politicians like Harvey Milk were being elected to public office, before Matthew Shephard's murder galvanized hate crime legislation. This was 1950s America. The Red Scare had been in full swing for a decade. Anti-communism hysteria had killed many careers and sent innocent people to prison.

Meanwhile, homosexuals were considered criminals and lunatics. The FBI and police departments across the country kept lists of known homosexuals and frequently harassed them and anyone who associated with them. The US post office tracked addresses where material about homosexuality was being mailed. Cities did regular sweeps to clear neighbourhoods and bars of gay people. Many of them disappeared and turned up in mental hospitals. Or prisons. Or medical experiments. Or the bottom of the local river.

To be publicly identified as gay meant humiliation, ostracization, harassment, firing, jail time, and death. It's no exaggeration to say that Richard risked his life every moment he spent with me.

All he had were fellow voices crying out in the wilderness - mostly poets like Allen Ginsberg, who shocked mainstream America with his frank discussions of erotic love, gay and straight alike. Richard clung to those voices like a life raft in a cold, dark sea. His bookshelf overflowed with their works.

A few decades meant nothing to a creature like me, but it was a lifetime for Richard. I ached for him, for his loneliness. I was alone too, but at least I didn't have an entire society hunting me. After all, I had been worshipped in the ancient world.

"You are not a freak," I repeated against his mouth. "Human history is very long and has a weak memory. Men have loved men since time immemorial. They've loved each other while they built cities and conquered continents. Your feelings are not unnatural, nor do they make you any less a man."

He laughed again. I'd known for a long time that he tended to laugh when it was preferable to crying. This was one of those times. I distracted him then with a kiss ... and other, more exhausting activities.

I loved this brilliant, talented, infuriating man. He belonged to me. And while many things have been said about the Goblin King, let it never be said that I don't protect what is mine.

* * *

Jimmy fell sick later that year. We only found out through a phone call from Doctor Ellingson's office in Manhattan. The father was brusque and emotional, and I knew right away that it had to be serious for him to break no contact.

I accompanied Richard to the hospital, of course. Jimmy was still functional then. It was only the first of many fits. He was still able to talk, able to work ... able to notice subtleties. Richard and I had made it a habit never to stand too close in public. Hold hands? Never. So I'm not sure what it was, exactly, that tipped him off about us. I would have found Jimmy's perceptiveness impressive if he hadn't been such a pigheaded arsehole hellbent on destroying my sex life.

The father chalked Jimmy's surliness up to his fits. I'm sure they didn't help. As they progressed, and Richard spent more time visiting home, things became strained between the brothers. This confused and upset Richard, who had looked up to Jimmy since they were boys.

The simple truth was that I remained the thorn between them. Jimmy hated my presence. He never said anything to Richard, but he did to me - snide little comments that made it clear he understood the nature of my relationship with his brother. He threatened me once with a knife. Doctor Ellingson thought it had been the schizophrenia talking, and he didn't hold it against me that I broke Jimmy's hand. Personally, I think homophobia had been more at play than mental illness, but I never said anything.

Eventually the fits got so bad that it was decided staying at home like Mrs. Ellingson was out of the question. Jimmy had simply become unmanageable. Thus began the first of many electroshock treatments, and finally the lobotomy that rendered him catatonic.

Richard was inconsolable. He'd just graduated Princeton then and, as expected, won a plum position as the New York Philharmonic's newest violinist. Life was supposed to be grand, but the latest developments with Jimmy had shaken the shrinking family to its core. Now it was just Richard and his father. The mother lived in another reality most days.

I'm sure Richard was thinking of his brother when he asked me one day, "Do you think homosexuality is a disorder? Like schizophrenia, or paedophilia?"

I sighed, dreading this line of questioning. "No."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know."

"But _**how?**_ "

"Homosexuality has existed in every culture since the birth of man. If it's a mental illness, then humanity has been mad for thousands of years, along with a large number of animal species."

"But do you think-"

"Is **_this_** real?" I asked, snatching up his hands, holding them to my chest so he could feel my heartbeat. "Do you think madness would feel this way? Do you think I would be capable of being this happy, if I were mad? How could love this deep be a sickness? How could it be wrong? I would kill anyone who ever tried to hurt you, and we're not mad, so stop worrying about it."

He stared at me, stunned. He probably thought I exaggerated in my promise to protect him, but I didn't. I was serious. I'd killed men before and had no fear of doing it again, especially to protect my family - and Richard was very much my family. I would have ripped the Underground asunder and carpet bombed cities to protect him.

* * *

I have few regrets. Does that surprise you? With everything I've done, and the many people I've lost?

I swear it's true. I've seen much and lost much more, but I don't regret many things. Living with regret will kill you, in spirit if not in body.

But sometimes, when all is quiet, I wonder how things would have been different if I'd only taken Richard Underground. The thought fluttered past my mind many times, when I'd watch Richard practicing his violin in the sunny living room of the Princeton townhouse, or when he sat across from me at dinner, laughing openly at my stories. _This is a cruel world for men like him. You should take him from it. Bring him home and let him be honoured as the beloved consort of a king._

Or would that have killed him? Driven him to madness and self-harm?

We were long past the days when men believed in magick and faeries. We believed in science now, and the power of the atom. We believed in God too, but not a God who appeared in the flesh for holy rites (except perhaps for the Catholics with their crucifixes and wafers). Even then, the idea of gods who were deeply vested in the well-being of humans was ludicrous to most, and they certainly didn't believe gods could walk down the street. God was an abstract idea, incapable of manifesting in everyday life outside of serendipity and aid provided by invisible angels. Even priests believed that.

I had come to learn that human minds become inflexible after a certain age. Shock can quite literally kill a person. I was very careful with my humans.

"David, you're thinking too much again."

Startled, I glanced up. We were sitting on the veranda of an Amsterdam cafe. Richard sat across from me in a tailored suit. He still liked his leather jackets, but he'd begun to let me dress him up for outings, perhaps to humour me.

He tapped my wine glass. "You said so yourself that you can't get a good Riesling outside of Europe. Well, here you go, buddy. Drink up."

I smiled tightly. "Of course." _My name is Jareth. Would you call me that, if I asked? Should I tell you?_ "What do you think about moving here?"

Richard's wine glass was on its way to his mouth, but he stopped in mid air and gaped at me. "Move? Here? Just up and leave the States?"

"Yes."

"I ... I don't think we can."

"Why not?"

"I have my work. You have **_your_** work-"

"I can work from anywhere. You can get a job here. Amsterdam doesn't lack for orchestras."

"My family is in New Jersey," he pleaded. Ah, we'd hit on the real core of the problem. I gathered his hands in mine over the table.

"Amsterdam is one of the most tolerant cities in the world for us," I said gently. "Holland decriminalised homosexuality a century ago. You can walk down the street without being afraid. Look, I'm holding your hands now and no one's looking. No one cares. You'd be happy. I want to see you happy."

"David-"

_Jareth._

"-my family's been through so much. I can't leave Jimmy. Not now."

"Jimmy won't know whether you're there or not," I said tactlessly. Richard removed his hands from mine and coldly returned to sipping his wine. "Tch. It's true, Richard. You know I'm right."

_Tell him, Jareth. Tell him what you are._

_What makes you think he'll come Underground with you? He won't even move to bloody Amsterdam._

_Remember Sassouma. You'd rather Richard be ignorant than dead. Say nothing._

So I said nothing. Not that it saved him, in the end.

* * *

The next few years were very happy ones for us, which is why the end of our relationship was so traumatic.

We didn't end with a bang. There were no fights, no threats, no theatrics. Until the day we parted, we'd been going to dinner and sharing a bed. The simple truth was this: Richard had grown tired of hiding. He wanted to be normal. And that meant taking a wife.

I'd rather not discuss the breakup. Suffice it to say, I was livid. I like anger; it's far preferable to grief and more comfortable than tears. We've already established than I never cry.

I coped the best way I knew and stayed Underground to focus on my work as Goblin King. Humans left a bad taste in my mouth for a while. When I finally ventured Above again, it was well into the 1960s.

I watched him from afar. I often saw his name mentioned in the papers - mostly articles about his performances in New York, San Francisco, London. There was a wedding announcement concerning him and a Miss Deborah Hershey, a socialite from Boston. His father must have been thrilled. And more articles, in _Life_ and _Time_ , chronicling Richard's ascent. There were record albums, and book deals, and interviews with Mike Wallace. Richard wasn't Elvis, but he was rapidly becoming one of the most beloved classical musicians of the modern era.

I never called on Richard, though he wrote me a number of letters. I shredded them unopened. He even sent a package once, but I refused to accept it.

And then, one day, there was an obituary.

I had to read it three times before the name registered. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. Richard was young, not even thirty. He had no health issues ... unless ... I thought of the Ellingson family curse. Schizophrenia. It usually appeared in early adulthood. Had Richard taken ill? Had he hurt himself? I thought of Sassouma. Insanity isn't required to take one's own life.

Obituaries don't mention cause of death. I scoured the papers for other news and found what I was looking for on the front page of an old _Star-Ledger_. My heart dropped into my stomach when I read the headline: **_Acclaimed violinist dead in murder, suicide._** That darling socialite wife shot Richard in his sleep and turned the gun on herself. He was 27.

A week later, the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan, officially marking the arrival of British rock music on American shores and (some have said) the real start of the 60s. The following years would see the rise of movements for civil rights, gay rights, women's rights. And oh, so many rock musicians. Richard had terrible timing to die when he did and miss all of it.

* * *

The police said it was a troubled marriage. I still don't know why she killed him, but I have my suspicions. A wife knows when a husband has lost interest, or never maintained interest in the first place. Did she find his stash of gay pornography? Did he have a boyfriend? Did he tell her it was a sham marriage, and why? Did she take his preferences so personally that she decided to end it all?

Was she prone to violence? Did she often mistreat him?

Or was she just a very sick woman?

Or was it something else?

I don't know. I'll never know. If I had more control over time in this dimension, I would rewind things and find out - or better yet, save him. But I don't, so I try not to dwell on the idea.

I got my hands on the police reports. Goblins may be annoying little buggers, but they make excellent thieves. I learned she shot him in the stomach before putting the gun in her mouth and firing up into her palate and thalamus. The bullet exited immediately from her skull and lodged itself in the ceiling of their bedroom. She died instantly.

Richard was not so lucky. It was a fatal shot, but a slow death. The coroner estimated Richard lived for another eight minutes, but by then the bullet had shattered his spine and punctured his colon. Eight minutes spent knowing he was going to die and there was nothing he could do. He bled out on the bed, afraid and alone.

I couldn't sleep after reading that.

By the time I learned about the murder, I'd already missed the funeral. I called Richard's father, thinking perhaps he would remember me. He did, but not in the way I expected.

"Hello?" It had only been a few years, but Doctor Ellingson sounded as if he'd aged decades.

"Doctor, I'm so sorry," I said. "You may not remember me, but it's David. Richard's friend."

There was a long, pregnant pause and then: "Oh! Yes. Mr. Goodman. Of course I remember you." There was another pause, but this time it was awkward. "I'm afraid you're too late, sir. My son is dead."

I flinched. "Yes, I just heard. I'm sorry."

"Me, too." There was a wet sound on the phone, and I knew the man was silently weeping. "He was a good boy. I thought I'd have more time to share things with him, but I guess I was wrong."

I was standing in the kitchen of my large, empty townhouse and rested my forehead against the refrigerator to close my eyes. I saw Richard for a moment in my memories, laughing and playing his violin with wild abandon. It's how I wanted to remember him forever. "Death certainly has a way of mucking up plans," I replied, because I had no idea what else to say.

"You loved my son, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"You loved him more than everyone else though, right?"

There was a strange tone in Doctor Ellingson's voice that I didn't understand. It contained a hint of emotion that defied my comprehension. "I suppose you could say that," I said carefully.

Doctor Ellingson sniffed. "Listen, Mr. Goodman, we don't know each other well, but I saw the way you looked at each other, and I know Richard adored you. You were the person he chose to have in his life. I didn't understand it, and I still don't, but I know you made him happy, and I'm sorry he didn't keep you. I'm so sorry."

 _Not as clueless as I thought._ I couldn't think of anything to say. I was struck dumb.

The moment stretched until it became uncomfortable, and we finally said muted apologies and hung up.

* * *

Justice may be slow, but it always comes. For Richard, justice came not in a courtroom, for his killer was dead. Nor did it arrive with pomp and fireworks. It arrived quietly in a cemetery. Doctor Ellingson had buried Richard on a hill overlooking a lake near Princeton's campus. All told, it was very pretty.

I found Walt there, staring at the grave with his hands in his pockets. He jumped ten feet in the air when he turned around and saw me sitting on a bench. I used to find that effect hilarious when it happened to Richard, and I felt renewed anger and grief that I'd never experience that again with him.

"Hullo Walt," I said quietly.

Walt clutched his chest and shook his head. "David! Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack. It's been a while. You-" He squinted at me. "-you haven't aged a day."

"Ah, but **_you_** have. How old are you now? Sixty? Have you found a girlfriend yet? You've been alone a long time, haven't you?"

This stunned him. "Who the hell do you think you are, you son of a bitch?"

I continued as if he hadn't said anything. "I admit, I didn't understand it for a long time. _He's a widower_ , I thought. _He's got his work at the university_ , I thought. But then I wondered if it was something else." I made a movement with my hands, as if balancing a slinky or weighing the contents of a scale. "Did you really miss your wife, or was your heart taken elsewhere ... along with other, more interesting regions of your anatomy?"

Walt turned white. It was quite a new experience. Usually he was all bluster and self-righteous frothing at the mouth. Finally he said in a strangled whisper, "I don't know what you're talking about, or who you've been talking to, but this conversation is over."

"But my dear Walt, we've just started!" I sang, springing up from my seat and suddenly rolling a crystal ball between my hands.

The man startled. "What is **_that?_** "

"This? It's a crystal. Nothing more. But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams."

Walt watched in mute fascination ... and then recoiled. I might as well have offered him a snake. "No!" he shouted, horrified at what he'd seen within.

"Oh, let's not mince words, Walt. You have very kinky thoughts, and they often involve young men under your charge. But they're only dreams, are they not? You've never acted upon them, correct?"

We stared at each other.

"Did you interfere with him?" I asked softly. Many people mistake a soft voice for calm. This is a mistake. A soft voice can mean I'm two steps away from blind rage and breaking bone.

Walt flinched. "I don't know who you're talking-"

" ** _DON'T!_** -" I roared, "-lie to me. I shall be most displeased if you lie." At this point, I was two inches from Walt's nose. The ground shook a little at my words, and Walt's hands had flown up to cover his head. "You hated Richard, **_despised_** him. For years, I thought it was because you were jealous, because he was willful, but it went far deeper than that, didn't it? You wanted him, and it enraged you to have this handsome young man so close and be unable to ... have him."

I grabbed Walt's chin, forced him to look me in the eye. "Or did you? Did you ... try something? One day, perhaps, in your office, when the door was shut and he was at your mercy? Was that why he hated and feared you so much? He was never the same around you after that day, when he and I met outside your office. Richard was a loudmouthed brat with you before, but that was the day everything changed. After that he'd tremble whenever you walked into the room. Why? What did you do to him, Walt? Why was he suddenly so afraid of you? Why did he fear his own desires, years later?"

Walt was shaking. I could feel it in his limbs. I could feel it in his pulse, where my fingers had come to rest against his throat. "You can't prove anything," he said with a smile. The bastard smiled at me.

I hissed in a breath. "Proof? Who has need of proof? Proof is for human laws, and human courts, and human judges. No, I need not prove anything. My suspicions are enough."

I withdrew my hand. Walt mistook it for a retreat. He stood taller. Stupidity does wonders for bravado. "I always knew there was something weird about you. You were queer for that boy. I knew it! I'll see to it you never step foot on campus again. No trustee will ever take your calls. You're finished."

"Finished? Yes, we're quite finished here." Suddenly my human guise was gone. I wore full black armour. The sun disappeared overhead, and the sky churned grey. Walt did a double take. He looked like a man whose world had just fallen down and his mind was scrambling to pick up the pieces.

"What?" he said. "I don't ..."

The look on his face was one of mounting terror. I'd peeled away every mask and let him see my true form. The only other humans to do that had been my lover who killed herself shortly thereafter, six centuries earlier. Or the humans who ran my Labyrinth, and they were _**never**_ quite right in the head again, even if they made it home.

"Heath Walton," I said, "there's enough reason for me to kill you right now. I'd uncoil your intestines across this lawn and let the crows pick your corpse clean. But that's too tidy an end for a villain such as yourself. Richard suffered for years, and I think it fitting you should feel the same, don't you?"

Walt shook his head, struck dumb. He was clearly moving into shock.

"I'm the gatekeeper who holds fast the door to the Nightmare Realms. Sometimes people ... accidentally find themselves on the other side of that door, and I have to go fish them out. Otherwise they go mad." I waved a finger in his face. "Since you love to dream, I condemn you to a lifetime of dreams. You will go home right now and go to bed, and you will never wake up. You will have frightful nightmares, and every time you think you're waking up in relief, you will only wake up into another nightmare. There will be no respite, and no one will come to save you. You will live out the rest of your life, which is at least another twenty years, locked in your own mind until the day you die. Goodbye, Walt."

The man's face was expressionless. At my final instructions, he slowly walked down the hill to the little side street where his car was parked.

Heath Walton did indeed go to sleep that day and never woke up. He died in 1989 in a mental hospital in upstate New York.

* * *

They say that if you can remember the 60s, you weren't really there. My memory is a bit of a blank slate between 1964 and 1978. I know I drank, smoked, snorted, licked, sucked and fucked my way through more cities than I can count. I befriended many musicians. I played at concerts. I frequented nightclubs. I met famous people, including one strange fellow from Brixton who fancied himself a singer and a space alien. If anyone asked, I would have told them I was out to have a good time. But the truth is I was grieving.

Fortunately, no one ever asked.

I suppose the turning point came after one night in Studio 54. I awoke in a bed with a stranger, my nose clogged with blood and cocaine, without any idea who or where I was.

Someone stared at me from across the room, a villainous man with a cadaverous face that scared the piss out of me. It took a beat to realize I was looking at my reflection in a cracked mirror over the vanity, and I felt ashamed and disgusted.

I took a shower, found clean clothes, and slapped some sense into myself. It was years since I'd been to Princeton, but I went there that afternoon and laid flowers on Richard's grave. I told him that I loved him, and I said goodbye.

I haven't been back since.

* * *

_Give me the child. Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City ..._

_If you think I'm going to give up my free will to another master, you're not only delusional, you clearly haven't been paying attention to a single thing I've said all week._

_Even now you use my name and speak to me as an equal, as if you were unafraid. I must tell you, I find it delightfully refreshing from the usual prostrating I get from humans._

_You can't rule everybody through fear, Your Majesty._

_When I want direction on how to rule my kingdom, I'll be sure to ask._

_Where can I drop you off ... Jareth?_

_You're going to be waiting a long time, Your Majesty._

When mortals learn of my existence, they tend to grovel. Some go mad. Others head right into denial. Precious few have accepted the truth (mostly writers and artists), but they are few and far between. All have feared me.

That Sarah has defied all of this is a constant source of aggravation and fascination to me. Even Richard never knew the truth. Sassouma killed herself over it. Yet here we have Sarah, a grown woman who still believes in faeries and magicians, who doesn't fall apart when the world around her does, who laid low a god and his kingdom when she was barely fifteen.

I can't make heads or tails of it. None of it makes sense. I try to fit the pieces together in my mind, and I can't. She neither fears nor needs me, yet there's something about me that draws her back again and again. I can feel it in our interactions. We are kindred. Anima and animus. Allies in a world that has forgotten magick and imagination.

She finds me a puzzle, too. I can see it in her eyes. I sense cynicism, curiosity and respect. I am a villain, but she's not afraid. I am a god, but she doesn't kneel. I am a colleague, a perplexing accomplice, a font of wisdom and advice. Some may call our relationship a wary alliance, or even a fledgling friendship. Together we are strangers in a strange land. I cannot remember the last time a human and I shared equal footing or understood each other to the degree we do. She even knows my name and shares my power, and so far it hasn't killed her.

The woman is unflappable. I can't figure her out, but I want to, even if I'll only have a few decades before she's taken from me.

All I have to do is make Sarah love me. I'm confident I can do this. For after all, my will is as strong as hers, and my kingdom as great.

* * *

Fae weddings are not small affairs. They can last days, weeks. Tiberius and Filomena wed in late summer, months after Sarah has begun her volatile apprenticeship with Muriel. When the day arrives for the wedding, I attend with a small entourage overseen by Cornelius. A king can never travel alone, not to a party this size. There are always things to be done for a king.

When I tire of the dancing and feasting, I retreat to a small grassy hill overlooking the festivities. The stars have come out, though the valley remains well lit by lamps and pyres. I lie back in the grass and watch the stars. I created them, billions of years ago, and they still look beautiful. I'm rather proud of my work.

Soon Tiberius finds me, huffing and puffing his way up the hill.

I laugh at him. "You're drunk."

He tries to sit beside me, but he falls down instead. "Not enough. I'd like to remember my wedding. Say, why didn't you bring your new love? I've wanted to meet her."

My face goes very still. "You're very presumptuous."

"You needn't lie to me. You're in love."

"You're imagining things."

"Bullshit. I could tell at my last party. You're hooked."

"Tch."

"She must be very beautiful."

"You're very confident it's a woman."

"I wasn't actually, I only guessed and you confirmed it."

"I didn't confirm anything."

"Jareth," Tiberius says as if speaking to a child, "of course you did. Your eyes gave you away. You have a terrible poker face."

"She doesn't love me yet."

Tiberius gives me a sad smile. "If she doesn't love you, let her go. This is eating you alive."

"Just like you would have let Filomena go if she told you to sod off?"

He has the nerve to look hurt. "If Filomena had rejected me, of course it would have hurt, but I would have moved on. There are more fish in the sea for me. I never understood why you never grasped that concept for yourself."

How dare he. He doesn't know. He hasn't a clue what I've gone through, how I've suffered. "No," I snapped. " ** _No!_** Sarah is ** _mine!_** "

Tiberius is tight lipped and pale, then, apologizing profusely and bowing as he retreats. No longer my friend but a subservient lord who knows he's overstepped a boundary. I sit there for a while longer, smoldering. I could decimate a world with my anger. Sarah is mine. How can he not understand that?

How can't she?

* * *

By the time I rejoin the party, the band's struck up a lively waltz, and suddenly there's a hand on my arm. Tiberius, with a proper hangdog look on his face. "Gwyneth is here," he hisses apologetically. "I had to invite her. She's royalty."

I grit my teeth. "Don't worry, Tiberius. I was the one who had to seduce a woman with control issues."

He vanishes into the crowd again. I want to follow but I can't, because someone's staying my hand. It's Gwyneth of course. She has deep set eyes and a beautiful but belligerent mouth.

"Jareth," she says, "I've missed you."

"Gwyneth, it's been a while."

"Yes, because you haven't called on me!"

I shake my head. "I told you, I wasn't interested."

She stares at me in unabashed amazement. "I don't understand you. Men have gone to war for my hand. They've killed each other for me. Any man would be thrilled to be picked by me and you ... you really don't care. What's wrong with you?"

"Your Majesty, now isn't the time or place for this discussion." Even I can hear the plea in my voice. Am I begging? Hell yes, the Goblin King is begging. Wonderful.

Gwyneth flinches as if I've slapped her. "No, that's not _**fair!**_ " she hisses. "You were _**mine!**_ "

I can't help it. I burst out laughing.

It's a terrible, deep, belly laugh meant to terrify children and wither crops. It's wicked and mocking and wild. It even frightened Sarah, once, when she was fifteen.

The wind pauses in its rustle of the treetops. The stars stop twinkling. The music screeches to a halt and everyone stares in confusion and fear. Laughter from the Goblin King? The Bogeyman? Surely something is wrong and someone is about to die a most ignoble death. I sense Tiberius panicking nearby. This has never happened at one of his parties.

"Thank you," I say sincerely. "I understand now."

"But you _**were**_ ," Gwyneth insists on the cusp of angry tears.

I cradle her face in my hands and whisper in her ear with infinite tenderness, "No, my dear, I'm not." Kindly, lovingly, but firmly. I am no one's anything. I am only myself. I am an entire universe unto myself.

Gwyneth recoils as if I've slapped her and flees into the surprised crowd. Fortunately, being a king means understanding crowd control. "Well?" I ask the assembled with a flourish. "Play on."

The music swells up again, and the people return to dancing with a few furtive glances and no real protest. Tiberius fights his way through, Filomena on his arm. She looks radiant. He looks like his head's about to fly off his shoulders like a rocket from a launching pad.

" _ **What did you do?**_ " he demands. "What did you say to her? Her brothers are going to hear about this. They're going to kill me. What ... wait, where are you going?"

I'm dropping my ridiculous hat and loosing the tie at my neck. With a flash of glitter, my clothes melt into fitted jeans and a T-shirt. I look respectably human, if a little crooked. "Tiberius, do you remember all the times when you made thinly veiled allusions to me being an idiot?"

"Uh-"

"I've been an idiot. I apologize. Don't let it go to your head."

"Jareth-"

"I've overstayed my welcome," I say simply, dusting off my drab human clothing of glitter. "You look wonderful, my dear," I tell Filomena, sweeping up her hand for a kiss. "My sincere congratulations on this, most joyous of days. I'm sorry I ruined your wedding."

" _ **Jareth-!**_ "

Filomena laughs. "It's been a pleasure hosting you, Your Majesty. You didn't ruin anything."

I wink at her with a conspirator's eye. "Be careful with him. Your new husband's a troublemaker, you know."

" _ **Because of you, Jareth!**_ "

"Tibby, sweetheart, please calm down ..."

I touch a gloved hand to my forehead in a mock salute and vanish with a flurry of sparks. I have a gift for Tiberius and Filomena, which Cornelius will deliver to them minutes after my exit. It's a little box made from crystal that will open for no one but its owners. Inside, they will find a key to the front door of a villa in Santorini, which I've secured for their honeymoon.

The gift is partly to celebrate their union and partly to thank Tiberius for putting up with me. It's hard to find good friends who will tell a king when he's being an arse.

* * *

Few experiences can rival the loss of a loved one in its barbarity, but the death of a dream comes close. It is excruciating, nearly to the point of stopping your heart. Dreams mean hope and creativity and pleasure. I should know, since I traffic in them. Surprisingly, I don't have many dreams of my own, but the ones I do have are potent and can keep me going for eons.

Here is my dilemma: I can accept that Sarah will live out her life in the mortal world and die in a few years, or I can ignore her wishes and take her Underground to enjoy what time she has with me.

If I do the former, she'll probably marry some unimaginative idiot who won't appreciate her. I bet he'll be an accountant, or some equally useless profession where they tally sums and compare business cards in the Wall Street version of a dick-measuring contest. He'll probably be named something atrocious like Kevin. Sarah will have to hide her magick, and whisper bedtime stories to her children, who will one day grow up to stop believing in them. Then Sarah will have to pretend she no longer believes in fairytales or else her own family will call her an eccentric old woman.

If I do the latter, she'd never forgive me. And despite my earlier opinion that I could make her happy even after stealing her from the world, I've recently come to the aggravating conclusion that no one can truly make anyone happy unless that person was happy to begin with. I loved Richard, and I love Sarah, but pinning my hopes on external forces only killed me in spirit, even if it couldn't kill me in body.

My situation isn't fair, but life rarely is. Sarah is the first human I've loved who knows what I am, **_AND_** doesn't fear me, **_AND_** knows my true name, **_AND_** defeated me twice, _**AND**_ even knows some magick herself ... but she doesn't feel particularly inclined to follow me anywhere, let alone love me back.

Ain't that a kick in the head, as Dean Martin would say.

* * *

It's not hard to find Sarah in her dreams. She's currently in a strange, backward little dimension where you don't often find humans, even the oddball ones like Richard. But I suppose Sarah's time in the Labyrinth rubbed off on her more than either of us noticed.

She's wearing a hoodie, but I'd recognize that figure anywhere and try not to startle her too much with my sudden appearance at her side. "Not how I'd normally picture my Labyrinth," I say, "but dreams can be most strange, I suppose. I like the purple you've chosen."

Sarah startles anyway. "What the-! Oh. It's you. How'd you find me in my dreams?"

"Tsk. I'm _**made**_ of dreamstuff, and I've known your dreams since you were very small. Have some faith in me."

We turn to stare out over this dream version of the Underground. "It looks different every time I come here," she murmurs. "I followed the roots of the Labyrinth to this place. It looks like an inversion of the real place."

"The Labyrinth is even more beautiful in physical life. Especially in the fall. It loses the beige and all the trees turn gold and glittery. Sarah," I say very earnestly, "are you enjoying your wish?"

She bites her lip. "Um, hard to say. Some days I want to kill Muriel, or myself. But I can't imagine anything different. It's ... really interesting. I can't explain it. It's like there's this entire world's been hiding from me my whole life, and I only saw snippets of it when I was fifteen. Now I'm finally peeling back the curtain. Yeah, I'm enjoying it."

Sarah has a tendency to speak eagerly with her hands when she's particularly worked up about something. When she does that, her entire being brightens. And in that moment, the epiphany strikes: there is a third option. I can't take her, and I can't abandon her, and yet my life is so much more interesting with her in it. I want her in whatever capacity I can have her. Friend? Ally? Fine. That will suffice. It _**must**_ suffice. I have no other choice. The other options are unthinkable.

I sigh. "Good. I have a request."

Sarah looks askance at me.

"If something were to ever happen to me," I continue, "the Underground will need a guardian. Someone with a strong imagination, and a deep connection to the place. I hope, if the need ever arises, you would care for my kingdom in my absence."

Sarah grabs me roughly by the arm. "Are you in trouble?" she demands. _Hero voice._

"I believe you're manhandling me. It's rather pleasant."

" ** _Jareth_** ," she snaps, shaking me a little. "Be serious for a second. Is something wrong?"

I suddenly feel very tired and very old. "Sarah, I have been alive for a long time. I have never had an ally, particularly a human, who might actually be capable of caring for my kingdom. Do you think you could do it, if you needed to?"

Sarah narrows her eyes. "How do I know this isn't a trick to steal me away? You said so yourself you'd take me in a heartbeat, given the chance."

 _Oh, bother._ "There has long been a lack of trust in this friendship - entirely my fault. I intend to remedy that. Yes," I insist at her startled look, "friendship. Does that surprise you?"

"I trust you more than most people," Sarah says wearily, "but don't push your luck, Goblin King."

I bark a laugh. "Sarah, if you ever find yourself an unwilling captive anywhere, including my beloved Underground, I would not rest until you were free to go wherever you wished. And that's a pledge made honestly and true, upon my crown."

If anything, Sarah looks even more worried. "Oh my God. It must be really, _**really**_ bad."

"Yes," I say sadly, "it probably is." She flinches as I suddenly lean in. "Shh, it's alright. It isn't that type of kiss."

And I kiss her gently between the eyes.

* * *

_To be continued._


	14. Renaissance

**12/15/2015:** I added a new scene at the end. Something was missing to this chapter, but I didn't know what it was. It bugged me for months. Now I'm satisfied. Otherwise everything else in this chapter is the same.

* * *

 **Hershel:**  My father didn't bother with comforting lies, he used his fist. He was a loveless, violent drunk, and no good to anybody. He drove me from home when I was fifteen. Didn't lay eyes on this place again for many years. I was not at his death bed, Rick, I would not grant him that. And to this day, do not regret it. Some men do not earn the love of their sons.

_-The Walking Dead_

* * *

**Lieutenant Dan:** Forrest, I never thanked you for saving my life.  _(He hops overboard and begins to leisurely swim across the water.)  
_**Forrest (voiceover):** He never actually said so, but I think he made his peace with God.

_-Forrest Gump (1994)_

* * *

14.

I quit working for Muriel in June ... for two reasons.

First: it's months after Mom's suicide. In the movies, people bounce back from tragedy in the time it takes to shack up and light a cigarette, which goes to show how crazy and unrealistic Hollywood is. I need more time to grieve, because I'm clearly not doing well. I can't eat, the goblins are driving me nuts, and I haven't figured out what to do after grad school. Also, Muriel's still a jerk.

And second: a vampire shatters my nose in a brawl outside Logan Gentlemen's Club on 3rd Avenue.

* * *

The day I discover vampires are real starts out pretty normal for a Friday. I've sent out a hundred job applications with no response and given up out of cold desperation. Muriel has sent me on a dozen errands this week, and today's no different. I make deliveries in Brooklyn, then Manhattan, and finally some out of the way place in Jersey called Matawan, which takes up most of the afternoon. By the time I return to Park Slope, the sun is sinking below the trees and sets the sky on fire.

Nix comes to greet me at the front door and curls around my ankles. "Red sky at night, sailor's delight," he says with vicious glee. "Got any plans tonight, O Champion of the Labyrinth? Perhaps an outing with your girlfriends? Or an inning with the Goblin King?" His tone makes this last comment obscene.

I eye him strangely. "I never said anything to you about my time in the Labyrinth. How do you know about that? Did Muriel say something?"

Nix grins cheekily and refuses to elaborate. He picks himself up and sashays back into the house, chuckling under his breath in a way that must inspire terror in the mice and starlings I've seen him hunt in the backyard.

"You spoke of peaches, when we first met," I call after him, "and other things no one else could know about me. There's more to you than meets the eye. I'm going to figure you out eventually."

"In due time, little bird," he croons softly. "In due time." And then he's gone, vanished through the open basement door at the base of the stairs with a flick of his tail.

"Don't pay him too much mind." Muriel has appeared from the kitchen, wearing her usual slacks and pearls. "He's under my control, but that doesn't make him harmless."

I can't look away from the yawning basement door. "What the hell is he?"

"Have you figured out what the Tarot means yet?" she counters.

"No."

Muriel sighs and turns away, as if she's been expecting as such. "I have a final delivery for you. It's on your way home, more or less. Ah ... it may be sketchy. I want you out of there by dark and texting me the moment you leave. Speak to no one and move like a shadow."

That's the thing about Muriel: I can't hate her properly because, despite her insults and crotchety attitude, she obviously doesn't want me to die. _Don't give her brownie points for what she's **supposed**  to do, Williams. You learned to manage down your expectations from Mom._

"Bring the abomination?" I ask cheerfully, but Muriel doesn't smile.

"I know the Goblin King likes to bestow nicknames on all of us, but I trust you won't sink to his level," she sniffs.

_No brownie points._

When Nix finally bounds up from the basement stairs, he's licking his lips and grooming his stinky fur like a proud veteran of war, and I know he's just killed a mouse. But then he winds sensuously around my ankles again and says in a simpering way, "So, Champion, your place or mine?"

* * *

The address isn't difficult to find. It's a large brick building near the waterfront in Red Hook, hidden beneath Route 278 like a bat in a cave. The lighting here isn't so good, and men stand at the corner of 3rd Avenue, chain smoking and muttering to each other. I pull my collar up and add a gruff swagger to my walk.

"This is bad," I tell the furry creature at my side.

Nix snickers. He's in his element. "Why? There are far worse things in the dark than thugs and rapists, you know. Like me."

"Thanks for the optimism."

"I'm quite serious. See that fellow there? With the scar on his cheek? Just finished a stint at Attica for kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon. The big fellow next to him is an enforcer for the Giordano family and the third guy ... well, never mind. Don't worry, they won't do anything to you here. Too many witnesses. Keep your chin up and don't smile. It makes you look weak."

A bouncer opens the door when I knock. Inside, I hear the steady thump of club music. The guy looks like he could stop a Buick with his bare hands. "Yeah?"

"Delivery from Muriel," I say, holding up the package. It's small, maybe the size of a book, wrapped in brown paper. "For Patricia."

The guy opens the door wider. "Deliveries for Patricia gotta be hand delivered. Orders from the top. She's upstairs in the office." He eyes Nix. "No animals inside."

"The cat comes with me. No cat, no hand delivery. Orders from the top." I'm not rude, just matter of fact.

He frowns, and we spend a minute staring each other down, but I don't blink. Finally he mutters and opens the door wider. "In back and up the stairs."

The music here is louder, and it's hard to see in the dark. What few lights I see are garish and red, chasing shadows in patches across the floor and walls like an arterial spray. There's a bar near the door, but it's so dark I can't tell the gender of the person pouring drinks, and around one corner I finally spy the source of the thumping music, and see women dancing on a stage.

"A strip club?" I look down at Nix.

He says something, but I can't catch it over the noise. From the look on his face, though, he's being a perv. I pass the crowd and head to the back, where I find the staircase as promised. It's quiet here, and I easily find the office door and knock.

"C'mon in!" says a bright voice.

I walk into a small room that looks as if someone sneezed all over it. There are stacks of paper and accounting books all over the place, but I spy a desk and a head behind it. Patricia is a small woman, with black skin and box braids. Her nails are perfectly manicured, and there's something about her that sets me on edge that I can't explain, even if she does seem nice.

When I walk in, she immediately gets up. "Oh good! You must be Muriel's newest. Thanks." She notices Nix but, unlike most people, she's neither disgusted nor confused. She's surprisingly wary. "Who's this?"

"This is Nix. Sorry, I hope you're not allergic to cats."

"No, not at all," she says, but the brightness has vanished like the flame on a snuffed candle. "Well, tell Muriel thank you and to please bill me."

"Sure thing." And I see myself out. Instead of braving the crowd and that thumping music again, I sneak out the back door, which spills into the alley. I glance at the furry abomination at my side. "Has she met you before?"

"Never seen her before in my life, sweetheart," Nix says.

"She seems to know you."

"I inspire strong reactions in people."

"I don't think-"

I stop dead. Nix plows right into my leg. There's a woman and a man in the alley. He's a working stiff judging from the suit, she's a leggy blond wearing nearly nothing. One of the dancers from inside? She's got him up against the brick and her face buried in his neck. Well, this is embarassing. I'm about to back up the way I've come and leave the lovebirds to their privacy when she pulls her face back, and I see blood. A river of it. Holy shit. Holy  _ **shit!**_  I'm not talking she bit her lip or anything, I'm saying she's a wolf feeding on a carcass. Blood everywhere.

The moan groans as if he's been gutted, and I flinch. Oh my God. Oh my  ** _God_**.

The woman hisses at me, and I realize I've muttered something aloud.

 _Save him!_  Before I can properly register what my brain's doing, my hand's grabbed at the dumpster next to me, snatched up a plank of wood, and hit her in the head. The woman goes down with a snarl. The man crumples to his knees, clearly in shock.

"Uh, Sarah ..." Nix says.

"Get Muriel," I tell him, but then I hear a bellow of outrage.

Someone grabs me by the hair and slams me facefirst into the brick wall. Pain,  _oh my God_ , pain. I hit the ground like a marionette that's just had its strings severed. The pain is incredible. I think I've landed in a puddle, because my face is all wet, until I realize the water here is too warm, and it's not water. It's my blood.

* * *

"Enlighten me on what part you didn't understand when I told you to be careful? What do you think I meant by  _move like a shadow_? Did you think I meant to say,  _start fights with the clients_?"

"Someone make her shut up," I groan.

"Excuse me?" Muriel sounds enraged.

"She doesn't know what she's saying." Nix's voice, over the din of other people in the background. "She's delirious."

"Ms. Foster, we need to see Sarah alone now. The doctor will be in shortly. Who let this cat in? We don't allow pets!"

Once I've got my head on straight, I realize I'm at the hospital. I'm not sure how I got here until Nix fills me in: Patricia called Muriel to say her assistant was lying in a puddle of her own blood and to please pick me up. Apparently Patricia hates ambulances - they mean cops, and questions, and Patricia evidently doesn't like those things. It makes her customers nervous. So Muriel came to stuff me into her car and take me to New York Methodist. I wake up on a gurney in the hall.

The diagnosis: a fractured nose and a mild concussion. I stay in the hospital overnight while the doctors prep me for surgery, and another two days after that for observation.

"You're a very lucky woman," says a nurse. "The swelling should go down in a few days, and your concussion symptoms are already clearing up. Your mother was worried about you, you know."

I manage to claw my way far enough out of my delirium to slur, "She's not my mother."

* * *

Shayna and Reimi watch Boudicca while I'm in the hospital. After a few days, New York Methodist releases me into Muriel's care. My mentor is surprisingly quiet on the way home. I doubt it's out of concern for my headache. I still feel like my skull's being held together by staples. When Muriel pulls up to the front of the house, she turns off the ignition but makes no move to get out. She just holds the steering wheel for a moment, and then she says, "You could have gotten killed. I think we need to discuss appropriate behavior on the job."

"Are you serious? The guy was being mauled by that psycho. What was I going to do? Let him die?"

"Vampire," she corrects me.

"Excuse me?"

"She's not a psychopath. She's a vampire."

All the air leaves my lungs as if someone's jumped on my chest. Hysterical laughter threatens. "Vampires are real?"

"Isn't it obvious?"  _You idiot_  goes unspoken, but I hear it in her tone.

"No, actually, it wasn't," I snap. "It would have been nice to get that heads up before you sent me into a vampire den."

Muriel makes a hand movement as if flicking away a fly. "That would have caused unnecessary drama."

"Bull-fucking-shit!"

"When I tell you to do a job, I expect you to do it. You can't expect explanations all the time, and believe me, most of the time you don't want to know the details."

"So this is my fault? Again? No. Wrong answer." I pop the door. The world sways a little, but that's just the concussion. "I'm not going to work with someone who can't respect me. We're done. Have a nice life."

I slam the door harder than I need to and walk away. It's over an hour from Brooklyn back to New Brunswick by train. My head throbs the entire time.

* * *

The swelling starts to go down within a few days. I have too much nervous energy and nothing to do with it, so I clean out my closets and find the business card from the Director, when I met him at Mom's funeral.  _Why not?_

The secretary sounds bored when I call. "Sorry, how do you know him?"

"I'm Sarah Williams, Linda Young's daughter," I explain slowly, already regretting having called. "We met at her funeral a while ago."

"Hold on a second," she says, unimpressed. She's gone a long time. When she returns, her tone is much warmer. "He says would you like to come to lunch? You're real lucky, he just had a spot open up this week. Then he'll be gone for a month scouting locations in Asia."

Yes? Yes. I'm so shocked that it takes a beat before I realize I've spoken aloud.

* * *

Not much is known about the Director. Oh sure, there's the public stuff you can find on his Wikipedia page, and a few things he's dropped in interviews, but otherwise he's a pretty private person. He's been a big name in Hollywood for forty years and directly mentored greats like Spielberg and Scorsese, and Chris Nolan's admitted that he borrowed a lot of the Director's techniques in some of his own blockbusters. Hollywood loves the guy. Some call him the Godfather of American Cinema.

So it's with great trepidation that I arrive at his building. I can't share too many details, for privacy reasons. Let's just say he lives in a ritzy area in downtown Manhattan. You can figure out enough from there, if you wanted to.

The doorman has to ring upstairs before he'll let me past the front desk, and from there it's a smooth elevator ride to the penthouse. His wife opens the door - I'd made it clear to the secretary that I felt uncomfortable visiting the Director alone at home. Surprisingly, the secretary understood my concerns completely and assured me his wife would be there.

I don't know what I was expecting, maybe a petite young blond, but his wife is clearly an older woman with an older woman's elegance. She's a bit like Muriel in style, but much warmer. "And you must be Sarah!" she exclaims on the threshold. "I'm Penelope. Please, come in."

It's a wide open floor plan with a 360 degree view of the city. I immediately spot the Chrysler Building. "You came on the perfect day," Penelope continues. "We've had lovely weather all morning. I think you can see all the way to Central Park. Have a seat, I'll bring you tea."

The furniture is elegant but comfortable enough to sink your butt into. A border collie watches me lazily from the corner and wags her tail but doesn't get up to inspect me, as if she's already decided I pass inspection. There are crayons scattered across the coffee table, and children's stick figure drawings.

"Thank you for coming!" I jump up as the Director strides into the room. He wears jeans and hasn't shaved that morning. "Oh, no no, please don't get up on my account. Make yourself at home. I apologize for the mess. Our grandchildren were visiting."

"They're very good," I say honestly. "I like the one of the boat."

"Isn't it good?" he says proudly. "That's my grandson's. We had them up to see us on Nantucket last week and took him whale watching. It was his first time on the ocean. Terrific experience for children."

Penelope returns with the tea at the same time as a woman in a clean pressed outfit who's clearly a maid or a cook. "Lunch is ready, sir," says the woman.

"Thank you, Lucy, bring it in any time," says the Director. He looks at me. "Chloe, my assistant, said you were okay with meat."

"Oh yes, thank you," I say shyly.

And really, it's a wonderful lunch: creamy tomato bisque to start, and then grilled chicken with a watercress salad, and mango sorbet for dessert. It's as good as a Michelin restaurant, or better. We talk about New England, and I mention my family's trips to Cape Cod when I was a girl, and Penelope asks if I've been to South Street Seaport here in Manhattan, which is a jolly place if you like boats. I'm good at small talk and putting people at ease. You can thank the psychology training.

"So what have you been up to since the last time we spoke?" the Director says finally, putting his tea down. "I told Penelope how we met. I hope you don't mind."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," his wife says kindly.

I wonder how long I'll have this loss, or people will be apologizing to me for it. "Thank you. It's ... it's been hard."

The Director pours more tea for his wife before she can ask. "It often is. And few people will understand."

"No," I say, "they don't."

"Do you know how your mother and I met?" he says brightly. "I'll never forget it. Young thing, she was, had only been doing commercials at that point. Or that's what my production assistant said. They sent her in to read for  _The Last Hustle._  My first film back in the States after a few years' absence, I was punchy, real nervous. The American critics had savaged my last few films out of Europe. I needed to hit this one out of the park or I'd be a laughingstock. No producer would ever greenlight me again. Anyway, this young girl comes in and nails the reading on the first try. We couldn't believe it.  ** _I_**  couldn't believe she hadn't already been snatched up by somebody. As time went on, well ..."

 _It's okay, you can say it. Mom could be difficult._ But the words won't leave my mouth.

"Personality matters just as much as talent," he continues. "Even more, I'd say."

It's the first time I've heard anyone outside my family admit that Mom was anything less than an angel. I gape a little. The Director smiles warmly at me. "If you prefer ice cream, I think we still have some. Our grandkids aren't big fans of sorbet."

"Oh no," I insist. "The sorbet was great."

"All the same, I think I'll have some. Penelope?"

"No, thank you, dear. My teeth."

So the maid returns with chocolate ice cream in crystal dishes: one for the Director and one for me. I love ice cream and won't say no. It comes with these solid silver spoons that are warm and slice through the ice cream like melted butter. It's delicious and sweet but not too sweet.

"We get this from Odd Fellows," Penelope says. "Nice place in Brooklyn. They don't make ice cream like this anymore."

"What was it like, working with my mother?" I ask suddenly.

The Director chews thoughtfully on his ice cream. "What was  _ **your**_  experience with your mother, my dear? Hmm? You don't want to say it, I know, because you're polite. Well, I'll say what you're thinking: she was a great woman, but not a good one. Was that not your experience?"

I'm staring again. "Sorry, no, I mean, yes. I mean ... I've just never heard anyone speak like this. It's nice."

"Nice to have validation, eh?" He chuckles. "I remember after our second film together, I started to see the signs. The way she spoke to people, especially the film crew, like they were beneath her. And then, of course, there was the drinking and the drugs. I can't tell you how many producers I had to plead with on her behalf. This was after the 80s, when the news came to light about her stints in rehab, and how she'd fail to show up on sets. She'd become such a liability to productions. Terrible shame. That woman had such a fire in her. She spoke of you a lot."

"What'd she say?"

"She wanted you to be just like her."

My stomach drops a little. "She always saw me as an extension of her."

"Narcissists do."

There's that word again. "I feel bad, you know. I mean, you're supposed to love your mother. Your mother's supposed to love you."

The Director is very thoughtful for a long time. "... what I'm about to say is controversial, my dear, but here it is. Evil exists, and sometimes it has children. There, I've said it. It takes a lot more than childbirth to make a woman a mother. Some never make the transition, more's the pity."

I'm smiling. I'm smiling like an idiot. Why am I smiling? I feel  ** _seen_**. There's no other word for it. I want to scream from the rooftops, I want to dance up Park Avenue, I want to shout to the world who I am and who my mother was. "Yeah."

"My mother was much the same," he admits.

"Abraham," his wife says in a warning tone.

The Director puts a calming hand on her arm, but his focus stays rooted on me. "You know I was born in Poland."

"Yes, sir, I read your Wiki page."

He laughs. "Well, so you know a bit about my story, but there's a lot I never told the papers. Too painful. You know, when Steven first got the script for  _Schindler's List_ , he offered the picture to me. He said a Jew had to make this movie or it wouldn't work, but I couldn't do it. I later learned Polanski turned him down for the same reasons. We couldn't make a story showing our families being murdered. Too gruesome. We needed a young Jewish director, not someone from our generation.

"I was born in Lodz," he continues. "My mother never drank and always honored the Sabbath. From the outside, she was a perfect wife and mother. Inside the house, she was a holy terror. One of my first memories is of her beating my brother so badly that she broke his arm. We didn't call it abuse, of course. We had no words for domestic violence back then. If people had known, they would have said she was difficult, but that doesn't accurately describe my mother's tyranny. If she could have gotten away with it, I'm convinced she would have killed the lot of us.

"It was my father who saved me, passing me through a hole in the wall of the ghetto and into the hands of a Resistance Fighter, who took me underground. I was seven. The Nazis liquidated the ghetto soon after. I never learned what happened to my family. After a few years, I stopped searching."

I've forgotten about my ice cream. There's a clock ticking in the background, and the dog whines, but I don't think the Director hears any of it. He's reminiscing.

"The Resistance took me to a safe house out in the country," he continues. "I stayed there with a farmer's family for a few years, until one day we were betrayed. The Gestapo came one afternoon and arrested all of us. After the war, I learned that they shot the farmer and sent his wife and children to Dachau. They survived, I don't know how. They've been living in France the last fifty years. I last saw them a decade ago, and I send them gifts every Christmas. They have great-grandchildren now. Wonderful people. Anyway.

"The Gestapo took me to a house with bars on the windows. It was the town jail. The Germans had taken it over as a way station before sending people to the camps, and they took me to a shed in the back. When they opened the door, I saw it was full of children. I immediately recognized my friend Moshe. We'd been schoolmates, and he had disappeared from the ghetto shortly before I did. I'd never learned what happened to him. Moshe said he'd been spirited away underground and had been living with a Polish family, just like me, but they'd been found out and here he was.

"The Nazis kept us in there for a long time. Months. They'd open the doors to bring us food ... but sometimes it wasn't to bring us food. Sometimes it was to take a child away, and the child never came back.

"We began to hear explosions, great explosions that shook the ground and rattled the roof over our heads. We could peek through cracks in the shed and see the electricity outside go out. I learned later this was the Warsaw Uprising. The Resistance had timed it to coincide with the Soviets bombing the city to drive the Nazis out. They failed, of course, and the Germans wiped out half the city and shot most of the civilians. By the war's end, the city had gone from a million people to a hundred thousand, most of them into mass graves.

"The Nazis became very nervous, then, and they stopped bringing us food and started taking more children. Every time the door opened, another child went away.

"Moshe asked me about his family. Had I heard anything? Were his parents still alive? I told him I didn't know. I was ten now. I hadn't seen my family in three years. I didn't think they'd even recognize me anymore. I had nightmares about that, where I found my father again and he said, 'You're not my son! Who is this stranger?' I wasn't even sure what year it was.

"More children disappeared, until one day it was just Moshe and me. We hadn't eaten in a long time. The next time the door opened, God help me, I prayed they'd take Moshe instead of me. And they did."

My ice cream's melted. Suddenly, I realize the collie's head is in my lap and I've been stroking her fur for the last few minutes.

"I sat alone in the dark for a long time. No one came. By now the explosions had started again, but they were coming closer and closer. I thought they were going to bomb the town ... and then the next time the door opened, the uniforms had changed."

He smiles at me, but the smile has no humor in it, and then he removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. I don't know what to say. Penelope coughs and looks at her manicured nails, obviously upset. Her husband pats her hand and puts an arm around her.

Me? I'm horrified.

"It's a wicked thing to say," he murmurs, "but the war saved me. If I had stayed with my mother, I would not be alive. She would have killed me. I was saved but at the expense of so many others. It's a terrible survivor's guilt. I try to make my life count so that the losses weren't in vain. My children and their children are my legacy, and my movies, of course. People need stories."

"I want to tell stories," I say quietly.

"Ah, so you're a storyteller too. Excellent. You know, every society needs storytellers. They're the ones who keep hope alive when it's most needed."

"I have a friend," I say, "a very old friend, who would agree with you."

"As old as me?"

"Older," I say with a laugh. "He's seen terrible things too, but he still loves humanity. You could say he's in love with all of us. He's surprisingly optimistic."

"Have you given thought to your paintings?" the Director suddenly asks.

"Oh! Um, yes. Well ... it's been a crazy few months. I dropped out of grad school."

"Why?" He looks aghast.

"I don't think it was the place for me."

"What were you studying, dear?" asks Penelope.

"Psychology. I was going to be a therapist."

"Grand profession," says the Director. "People in New York think you're crazy if you  ** _don't_**  have a shrink. You would have done very well at it."

"I think so too, but it's not what I wanted. I just didn't know it until after Mom died."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Is that wrong? I'm twenty-seven. I should know this by now."

"Should you?" asks the Director, and I have no idea how to respond to this. "I'm eighty. I'm still figuring out who I am. It's the great imperative in life and it never stops. Do you know how we learn what we want?"

He obviously wants me to answer. "How?" I ask.

"By doing. By creating. We play around and figure out what brings us joy and what feels right, so we follow that. Life is a game. That's how you'll find your answers, and yourself. You won't find it by listening to other people's definitions of you."

I feel like this one statement is the entire education I missed in K through 12. It makes me feel deliciously warm. "Thank you."

"I have a friend," he continues, "partners with the Met, runs a few galleries here in Manhattan. I'd like to introduce you. I think he'd like your work, and I know he has high end clients with your tastes. Name's Imamura. Splendid fellow. You need to meet him."

I'm speechless. "I don't know what to say."

"You're welcome. I'll have Chloe set you up."

* * *

Play. The point of life is to play. I take another look at the applications I've sent in to coffee shops and bookstores and companies in need of an assistant. God, Shayna was right; I  _ **have**_  been thinking too small. What do I  ** _really_**  want? What would I do if I thought failure was impossible?

I make a list of my favorite companies: the ones whose products I use in my apartment, or whose commercials make me laugh. Some of them need help with their websites. Their words are boring. They need a storyteller. Corporate people call it marketing.

A friend of a friend introduces me to a Vice President at one of these companies, a global giant whose cartoon movies I watched all the time growing up. I send the woman a brief email with my ideas, which I think could help them make more money.  _I can rewrite these pages on your website and create some ad campaigns for you_ , I write, and describe in detail how I'd do this.

She writes me back immediately.  _Love your ideas. You're in NYC, right? Can you come to my office for coffee?_

By the end of the week, I have a signed contract for my first project and a check for $5k. And because I'm a freelancer, I can wear jeans and work from Starbucks.

I guess the solution to post-grad school life was under my nose the whole time. Jareth would call it magic.

* * *

It's been a week since I quit working for Muriel. Transitioning to self-employment isn't that hard. Within a day of my first project, I'm sitting in a New Brunswick coffee shop, Boudica at my feet while I type away on my laptop. The sun is shining. Chloe the Director's assistant has me set to meet with Imamura the following week to see my paintings. I feel more in control of my life than I have in a very long time.

Then a familiar leggy blond ruins it by sitting down across from me. "Hey."

 _Skreech!_  Boudica snarls as I back my chair up in a panic. Of course I recognize her. It's the vampire who decked me outside Logan's. "I'll scream."

"Please don't," she says. Up close, she doesn't look particularly strange. She's pale, sure, but dressed like a college student on break. Jareth's hair is so blond it's almost white, but her blond is golden and clearly came from a bottle. She's got a nose ring.

"How the hell did you find me?" I demand.

"Muriel," she mutters, adjusting her sunglasses.

I'm going to kill Muriel.

"Look," the blond says awkwardly, "um, how's your nose?"

"Fine," I say flatly.

"You're not making this easy," she says in an accusatory tone. "Look, uh, I'm sorry about that night. You scared the shit out of me."

It takes everything in me not to screech, and I still don't quite make it. "Me?!  _ **I**_  scared  ** _you?_** "

"Well, c'mon, stranger walks in on me and my boyfriend and hits me with a two by four, of course I'm gonna be scared."

"Your  _ **boyfriend?**_ "

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, I  ** _can_**  be in a loving, committed relationship, even as a stripper."

"You were  ** _biting him!_** "

"He likes it," she counters. "You never been bit before? Seriously?"

"I'm not having this conversation."

"Wow," the blond breathes. "Muriel said you were clueless when it came to vampires, but I didn't know it was this bad. Uh, I'm Amanda, by the way."

"How can you be outside in the sun if you're a vampire?" I demand.

Amanda snorts. "You read too many novels. I'm not a big fan of the sun, but it won't set us on fire or anything. How do you think we manage to hide in society so well if we kept nocturnal?"

"I can't believe this."

She smiles then, which makes me pause. Her teeth are a little too sharp and her eyes (when she flicks her sunglasses down) are a little too red. There's something alien about her that makes my flesh crawl. It's different from Jareth's strangeness but no less unsettling. "Fine, don't believe it," she says. "But let me apologize all the same. I can see how a newbie would make assumptions."

I'm not buying this. "You tracked me down just to apologize?"

Amanda looks away. "Well, Patricia was pissed. And when she heard from Muriel that you're best mates with the Goblin King, well. I thought she was gonna kill me. So, um, I'm sorry about your nose. Please tell your boyfriend it's no hard feelings, and if he's gotta blame anybody, it was all my fault. My clan's on good terms with him and we'd like to keep it that way."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Uh huh," she says, unconvinced.

"Are all vampires this friendly?"

"Are all humans?" she counters. "Don't be so racist. We're not a monolith." She stands to go. "Anyway, uh, are we cool?"

"Piss off," I tell her.

Amanda chews on her lower lip. "Listen, it's not my business, but you're obviously a rare human who spends her days running into vampires and hobgoblins. If you don't know how to play the game, you need to learn fast. Not everyone's as nice as me. I could have killed you."

"I'll take it under advisement," I say, crossing my arms over my chest as if shielding myself. Amanda shrugs and quickly vanishes into the afternoon crowd. My latte's gone stone cold. I don't even notice. Boudica upsets the other patrons because she won't stop growling.

* * *

The goblins clamber around the door to greet me when we return home. Lucky has a new sock for a hat, and several of the goblins sport new armor. "You guys have been shopping, I see. You weren't terrorizing the sales staff at Saks, I take it?"

"His Majesty got us presents!" exclaims Hobb.

"He said we've been very good," adds Orson.

"No blowing stuff up," says Lucky. "Much."

That's surprisingly thoughtful of Jareth. I'll have to thank him next time I see him for taking care of my goblins. I've become fiercely protective of them. "What do you guys know about vampires?"

The goblins gasp altogether. "Vampires!"

"Tricksy!"

"Bitey!"

"Dangerous!"

"We don't know much," Bertrand admits for all of them.

"I appreciate your honesty," I tell him. "How's the Goblin King?"

"Misses you," says Lucky. My stomach flip flops while the rest of the goblins coo like a bunch of scandalized kindergarteners. Lucky is unfazed. "Says he's surrounded by idiots."

"That's us," says Wicket.

"Nuh uh," insists Skeet. "That's his goblins. We're  ** _Her Majesty's_**  goblins."

* * *

I take my brother to the mall back home in Nanuet. It must be nice to have the entire summer off, but I still don't miss being a kid. Toby's going into high school this year. "I asked Katie Deng out," is the first thing he says when I arrive at our parents' house. "She said yes."

"Well, well!" I say. "That took guts. What are you guys going to do?"

"Not sure. Uh, I think we're gonna have coffee, and then we're gonna play tennis. Do you know how to play tennis? Cuz I don't."

"You swing the racket and keep the ball inside the white lines, I think. Does Katie play tennis?"

"All the time. Her parents belong to the country club."

"You should ask her to show you. She'll feel important and, if you ask for help on your swing, it'll give her an excuse to touch you."

Toby squints at me. "That's ... really smart. Almost sneaky. I like it."

We walk around the mall for a while. I haven't been to the local mall since I left home for college. It's changed a lot in the last decade. They added more stores and spruced the place up, made it real high end. We spend money at the arcade, ride the merry-go-round, eat sushi at the food court, and go to the movies. It's a coin toss between soppy romance and killer robots, but we mutually agree on killer robots. I'll watch anything, as long as I get to sit in an air conditioned theater.

Toby rests his feet on the seat in front of him. "How's the new job?"

"Oh. I quit."

"What? I thought you liked it."

"Not really. It didn't work out."

"Aw. Sorry to hear that, sis."

"It's okay. Did I tell you I got a contract?"

"Dad said something about that. Working for the Mouse! That's really cool. So I guess you're not sad about grad school."

"No. I had to do something different."

"You've always done something different."

I eye him. "What's that mean?"

"Well, you're different, aren't you?" he asks. "You'd never be happy doing what everyone else is doing. Everyone else is so boring."

During the movie, I become aware of a warm sensation that has nothing to do with the temperature. It's the same feeling I got weeks ago, when I tracked Jareth down at the psychiatric hospital. It feels like a little sun blooming in my chest behind my heart. It starts between my breasts and pools liquid fire into my belly. I lace my fingers over my stomach and sigh.

"Sarah?" Toby asks in the dark next to me.

"I'm okay."

I can't be certain - I mean, it's not like I have actual words to go on, just a hunch - but I think Jareth's looking for me. I can feel the tug. I wonder if Muriel's told Jareth I quit, or why.  _I'm okay, Jareth. I'm safe. Let me be._

I don't know how, but I think he understands. The sensation drifts away like dandelion fluff on a breeze, but it doesn't entirely vanish. My belly still feels warm and delicious full when I go to bed that night, and it has nothing to do with food.

* * *

That night, I dream of the Tarot.

I don't know why. I brought the deck with me after leaving Muriel's, but I haven't looked at the cards since then. I stuck them in a drawer and kind of forgot about them.

In the dream, the cards are gateways to other worlds. The colors come alive and the figures move like ghosts. I run through all the cards, hopscotching my way through different dimensions. I see children, magicians, demons and knights, kings and queens, lovers and angels, smoke and water and fire and flowers. It's a tangled riot of light and sound, and it all ends with a thunderclap that leaves me sitting up in bed hugging a goblin to my chest.

 _Jareth!_  I want to speak the name aloud, but I don't dare.

* * *

Muriel doesn't answer her door when I knock, so I use the key I still have around my neck to let myself in. The house hasn't changed in the week and a half I've been away. I find the mistress of the household in the kitchen making coffee. She pauses when I walk in, but otherwise she doesn't look that surprised to see me.

"How's your nose?" she asks, setting a second cup of coffee on the table.

I don't move from the doorway. "Better. The doctor said I shouldn't have any permanent damage. Uh, Amanda came to see me."

"I wasn't sure if she'd find you," Muriel admits, "but vampires are good trackers. I didn't think it would be that difficult. Cream?"

"Just some sugar, thanks."

"Did she apologize?"

"Yes."

"Good. I didn't think Patricia would want the Goblin King's wrath on her family's head."

"I got a job."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. I have one client, trying to get a few others."

"What are you doing?"

"Marketing."

The corner of her mouth tips up. It's not quite a smile, but it's a very near thing. "Storytelling. How apt. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"The Tarot cards," I say slowly. "They're about life, aren't they?" Muriel cocks her head at me. "I mean, they're not about predicting the future, they're about us here, right now. Life, death, love, transformation. The cards tell our own stories."

Muriel waves a hand at the table, so I take a seat. She makes no move to sit. "Correct. The cards are very much about life."

"Does your offer stand? About being your apprentice? I'm still interested."

"Are you now?" She looks amused, but it's not sarcastic.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I think this is the only way forward," I admit. "I see things and know things that most people never will. I need to know how to navigate this new world."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Well. With great power comes great responsibility, right? How can I make a difference if I don't know what I'm doing?"

"Hmm." Muriel leans against the counter and sips her coffee. I still haven't touched mine. "Most applicants never make it to becoming an apprentice. They wipe out before they can tell me anything about the Tarot cards, and I like it that way."

"You only get the people who are dedicated."

"Yes. And quite frankly, I'd rather they wipe out early than suffer. Do you know how many apprentices I have trained? Twelve. I have trained twelve apprentices since I began. Of these, five are dead, four won't speak to me, and the other three are still active magicians themselves. The washout rate is high, and the margin for error is slim. So I try to make people hate me and quit early. Do you understand?"

"You still should have told me about the vampires," I counter.

"No, I shouldn't. Most people don't respond well to such news, which is why ignorance is such a gift. It's a protection. Until I had a better idea of your character, it's much safer to have you run errands and possibly quit because you think I'm a nasty old woman than learn something that would potentially ruin you."

"Well, look, if we're going to work together, I need you to be honest with me," I tell her.

"Or what?" she dares.

"Or I'll be a pain in the ass."

She throws back her head and laughs, really laughs for the first time since we've met. "At least you have a spine! I will make a deal with you, Sarah. I will tell you as much as you need to know, and I will watch your back. And you can push back on me as much as you like, but sometimes I will say no and you will just have to deal with it. In return, I ask that you exercise common sense and not get into anymore fisticuffs. Is that agreeable to you?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I don't tolerate crap very well."

"Evidently," she says dryly, "but I'm not looking for a servant. I'm looking to train a magician. Are you in or not?"

"Alright," I tell her, and I no longer feel any of the frustration or anxiety I got from my first meeting with Muriel. Things are on my terms now, more or less. "Can I ask you something? Jareth said we were a good fit."

" _ **His Majesty**_ , Sarah."

"Yeah, him. Why would he say something like that?"

"I don't claim to understand his motivations. You must understand, I don't know him well."

"How long have you known him? How did you meet?"

" ** _That_** is a story for another day. I suppose your training will have to take place around your freelancing work."

"I run my own schedule now, so I'm flexible."

"Good. Can you start now? Wait a minute."

Muriel leaves the kitchen, and I see her go upstairs to the long hallway with the paintings that change themselves. She's gone for a while, and when she returns, she holds a fat white candle in an old silver candlestick, and a book with a torn leather cover. She plunks both of these onto the kitchen table in front of me.

"Your first assignment," she says, "is to light the candle."

"Okay," I say, not getting it.

"Without matches," she finishes.

"How about a lighter?"

"No."

"Then how ...?"

"Indeed?"

"What," I say, "am I supposed to clap my hands and make the candle light itself?" And here Muriel just grins, like a mischievous child. It reminds me too much of Jareth's maniacal expressions whenever he's bested me. It's very unsettling. "You're serious. How do I ...?"

"Don't overthink it," she says. "Also, read this book."

I stare at the cover. "Latin?"

"One of the major languages we use in magic. You'd do well to start learning now."

It can't be that much more difficult than French or Arabic, and I tell Muriel so. She smiles again. I'm not used to seeing her smile. It's unnerving. I laugh a little under my breath. "You know, I ... it's been a long time since ... I mean, I don't get along well with older women."

"Ah." Muriel seats herself back at the table. "Now I start to understand the Goblin King's plan a little more. I assume this has to do with your mother."

We haven't spoken of my mother since our interview, when Muriel made her snide remarks about Mom the Megabitch. I don't know why I felt so defensive of a terrible person. You're supposed to defend your mom, no matter how awful she is. There's no heat in Muriel's voice when she mentions Mom again, but lightening may as well have just struck the kitchen. The room feels charged. A wall between us has dissolved.

"Yeah," I say, and I'm embarassed by how my voice cracks. "I had a talk this week with ... with this guy. And he just understood me, completely. It's been so hard, you know? How do you mourn the passing of such an awful person? A person you're supposed to love? How can I love myself? I'm such a loser that my own mother abandoned me."

"Your mother did the best thing by leaving and sparing you more damage from her ridiculous, selfish behavior," Muriel says firmly. "You weren't abandoned, Sarah. You were saved."

You can hear a pin drop. My mouth drops open, useless. I want to speak, want to say something, but what can I say? I still have a lump in my throat, the same lump that's never gone away since Mom's funeral. The lump moves out of my throat and into my eyes, and suddenly, to my horror, I'm crying.

I didn't cry when the news told me Mom died. I didn't cry at Dad's house. I didn't cry at the funeral. I didn't cry when Jareth came back. I haven't cried for any of it. I've been numb for months. I thought I must be a terrible, cold, selfish person. Now I'm sobbing and snotting all over Muriel's kitchen table.

Nix must have just arrived. I can hear him make a smartass comment from the doorway, but I'm weeping too hard to catch what he says, just the tail end of Muriel shooing him away. She pets my hair while I hide my face in my hands and sob like an hysterical child.

"I'm s-sorry about your t-table," I finally manage to say, once I get a hold of myself. The glass table top is streaked with snot and tears.

Muriel tells me to think nothing of it. Even magicians use Windex. And she smiles at me, as if she's made the funniest joke.

* * *

 

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery again. It's cool here even in the summertime, because of the wind blowing in off the river. You can't actually see the river from Mom's plot, but I know it's there, hidden by the trees, a silent sentinel winding its way up from Manhattan.

I almost can't find the grave again. The funeral feels like a hundred years ago, even though it's only been a few months. I have to pick my way up a long drive (where the limousines parked), and pass a familiar copse of birch trees ... and there it is, a small gravestone on a gently sloping hillside. I don't remember much from the funeral because of the shock, but I remember the little cross and the doves set in marble.

Mom died in the spring, but now I'm here to finally bury her.

I couldn't compel myself to wear black again. I just couldn't. So instead I'm wearing a nice summer dress I got on sale at Marshalls, and ballet flats, and my hair braided to the side the way I saw it done by some Fashion Week model in some photo on Pinterest. I had purposely avoided the mirror as I got dressed, afraid I'd ruin my makeup if I cried, but I'd caught a glimpse of black hair and white lace, and I'd decided I must look good enough. Mom never cared how I looked anyway, so I can't see her caring now.

So here I am.

I stare at the grave for a beat. It's covered in stuff: mementos and balloons and roses and buttons.  _Who are all these people?_

There's a family about a hundred feet away, sticking little American flags in a plot and telling the children to "say hi to Grandpa." I feel very exposed all of a sudden and wish I'd worn something with sleeves.

I smile, and surprise myself to find it's very genuine. "Hi, Mom."

Unsurprisingly, Mom doesn't say hi back.

"... um, I brought you something." I hold up an armful of lilies. "I wasn't sure what kind of flowers you like, but the guy at the flower shop said lilies are good. They mean a new start."

This is so awkward. I sigh and look at the family nearby. They've said their goodbyes and are walking down the hill. I'm alone now.

I look back at the grave. "You were a terrible human being, Mom. I don't know why. And I don't know why I'm the only one who knows, apart from Dad. You were sweet to the rest of the world and saved your meanness for those who were closest to you. I never understood it, and I blamed myself. I've made a new friend recently, and she made me see that it was never my fault, that you were just an unhappy person. So I'm here to bury you, finally, and pray you've found the peace you couldn't have in life."

I bend down to arrange the lilies among the other gifts, then straighten up with a creak in my back. They look nicer than I'd expected. Suddenly, I'm glad I sprung the sixty bucks for them. "If it's any consolation, Mom," I mutter, "I will never be the woman you were. It's definitely a consolation to me."

Mom's still not answering, which honestly is preferable. I can't imagine how hysterical she'd have gotten if I'd ever said these things to her when she was alive. She'd have torn me to shreds. The thought makes me smile and my eyes prick with tears I refuse to shed, because I'm wearing mascara.

You know how you often don't notice something until it's gone? I suddenly realize birds have been singing since I arrived, and now they've gone silent. My arms prickle with gooseflesh, and when I glance up at the trees, I see they're empty. Everything in the forest is hiding.

And then I see why ... a small white owl, perched in the branches of a monstrous sycamore tree overshadowing the hill. Of course, it's a barn owl. Even from here, I can see the heart-shaped face and the dead black eyes. When he sees he's been spotted, he eagerly hops along the branch and lazily flaps his wings, but otherwise he doesn't budge from his spot.

Seeking permission.

I sigh. "Jareth. Come."

It's barely a whisper, but owls can hear prey from a long way off. He glides down from the tree and disappears behind a grieving stone angel, and then a man steps out from behind it, wearing black armor and a blank expression.

I'm strangely glad to see him. Jareth is a constant in an ever-changing world. He silently joins me at my side, and together we stare at the grave.

"You'll scare people if they see you dressed like that," I say, though I won't look at him. Chastising the Goblin King is an intimidating thing even under the best of circumstances.

"They won't see me." I can hear the self-satisfied tone in his voice, and I know he's grinning. "Come to pay your respects?"

"To bury the dead, finally."

"Ah." There's a lot of understanding packed into that one word, and I feel oddly grateful I won't have to explain. "I'm afraid I know much about that."

I risk a glance at him. "I imagine you've lost a lot of people in your time."

He tips his head like a bird. "I am life itself, and the harbinger of death, for each is merely a flip-side to the other ... but to answer you, yes. I've lost people."

"How do you get over it?"

Jareth actually pauses to look thoughtful. "I don't. But you needn't forget a person in order to accept they've gone."

"And what if they were a bad person?" I'm starting to feel angry, and I don't know why. "What if I  _ **want**_  to forget them?"

"Sarah," Jareth chides, as if I'm being stubborn, "you are your own woman. Of all people, I can certainly tell you that." He makes a mocking flourish with very little bite to it. "... my Champion."

 _Do as you please, but bury the dead._  I can hear it in his voice. I can't help smiling at him then, and when he bows to me, I reward him with a little bow in turn. Then he disappears, leaving a small white owl shivering atop the gravestone. I hold out my arm, and he hesitates with his massive claws, but then he gingerly climbs up my arm, leaving no marks, and perches atop my shoulder, fluffing himself against my cheek.

Should I take him with me? Muriel would pitch a fit. I've only known her a short while, but I can already tell Jareth makes her nervous. 

Before I can decide, Jareth has leapt from my shoulder and pounced in the grass. When he soars back into the trees, a mouse dangles helplessly in the claws that just seconds ago gently touched my skin.

_I am life itself, and the harbinger of death._

I start shaking, and can't stop until I reach the car.

* * *

To be continued.


	15. Enlightenment

Fledgling

By J.R. Godwin

Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. I'm not making any money off of this.

* * *

_"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."_

-Leonard Cohen

* * *

All things must end, and this story is no different. Sorry.

Alas, if we left this task up to the Goblin King, doubtless he'd waste time dancing around the topic, only to shirk his duty altogether in the end. Immortals hate endings - such sharply defined, structured things. It's against their nature. And few immortals hate being pinned down by an ending quite like the Goblin King, who doesn't appreciate accountability to anyone or anything.

Sarah, the avid storyteller, is slightly suspicious of endings. For her, the best part of a story is when you accidentally trip over a hidden surprise that extends the plot. If you know what you're doing (Sarah believes), you can weave a tale into infinity. Stories are like fire that way: the more you use them, the more they grow. All good storytellers understand this, and Sarah is one of the best. It's part of why the Goblin King likes her so much.

Therefore, as neither of our typical narrators is best suited to tell this part, the author has decided to make a brief reappearance. Try not to panic. If it's any consolation, this isn't a real ending. Not really. It's just a place to stop for now.

* * *

On the day Sarah finally buries her mother for good, she returns home to find two letters waiting for her.

She finds the first letter in her mailbox: a stiff no-nonsense envelope from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Los Angeles, bearing Linda Young's final toxicology results. Sarah has been expecting and dreading this. She stuffs the letter unopened into her purse.

The second letter (a complete surprise) waits on her kitchen table. She actually walks right past it at first, goblins close on her heels, before her mind registers the piece of paper propped against the salt and pepper shakers. Well, not quite paper. Transparent vellum, bearing a familiar spidery handwriting. Jareth, of course. Who else would send her mail by goblin courier?

The envelope rips easily under her fingernail, and she unfolds the note inside to read:

_"Sarah,_

_A small token of friendship. Keep it secret, keep it safe. I trust you to do right by me._

_If you don't want it, leave it on your table and it will return to me overnight. Should you keep it and ever change your mind, please burn it._

_Jareth"_

There's a lump in the envelope that unravels into a lock of hair - white blond, light and airy, bound into a tight braid and just long enough to wrap around her fingers. A love token? It doesn't feel like a love token. Something's different. Something's changed. She scans the letter again. No pet names, no endearments, no flowery prose. A small token of friendship, he says. I trust you.

And then she remembers one of their last conversations: _There's long been a lack of trust in this friendship - entirely my fault. I intend to remedy that._ A ghost of a memory. No, a ghost of a dream, his lips on her brow. A kiss meant to reassure, not seduce. Affection, not lust. Well, no overt lust, anyway. She's pretty sure lust keeps Jareth's motor running.

Sarah glances at her goblins clustered behind the kitchen doorway. "Is he serious?" The goblins titter nervously in response and avoid her gaze.

According to fairy tales, there's great power in knowing someone's name. Or holding something that belongs to the person, like a prize possession or a body part. She already knows the Goblin King's name, so how much more damage could she do to him with a lock of his hair in her hands?

A lot, going by the scared expressions on her goblins' faces. They've never looked at her the way they're looking at her now, like she's the Big Bad Wolf about to eat them.

Since when has Sarah become the Big Bad Wolf?

"What's Her Majesty gonna do with His Majesty's hair?" Lucky won't look her in the eye, which scares Sarah just a little bit.

And the truth is, Sarah doesn't know. She's not sure what Jareth wants her to do. But the hair feels surprisingly nice. Even braided, it's soft as bird down between her fingers. She could sleep forever on a mattress made of this stuff.

Sarah gives what she hopes is an encouraging smile. "I'll keep it secret and keep it safe, of course."

The goblins visibly relax, but they still look as confused as she feels. Jareth has just handed her a knife to cut his throat. It doesn't make sense.

Still, she's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially a weapon she can use against a god whose favorite hobbies include kidnapping and threatening people with smelly landmarks.

We must pause here, for Sarah has another confession to make, one she's never told Jareth: she still has all the gifts he's sent her, hidden in a drawer at the back of her closet. Gross, we know. She never had the heart to throw them away back then, back when her life was falling apart with her mother's death. The packaging was too pretty. Her stepmother always said Sarah has a magpie's eye for pretty things.

But Sarah's in for a surprise when she opens that drawer and the boxes nestled inside. All the food is completely unspoiled, fresh as the day it arrived. It figures Jareth would give her magical food with an unlimited expiration date.

The macarons from France still look like something from a fancy magazine spread. For a split second, temptation looms to pop one in her mouth, but she can't risk it.

She could hide the lock of hair there, but what if she suddenly needs it? She couldn't run home to get it in an emergency, and if there's anything she's learned about the Goblin King, well, the guy is full of surprises. She needs to keep the hair on her, and she doesn't trust herself with pockets. She loses stuff in her pockets all the time.

Maybe in her bra? No way. If Jareth ever found out, she'd never be able to look him in the face again.

In the end, Sarah wraps the hair in a little sandwich baggie and tucks it into her wallet, next to her driver's license and a photo of Toby at his 8th grade graduation. Then Sarah heads for Muriel's house. She surprises herself by bringing both her dog and her goblins.

* * *

By the time Sarah arrives, Muriel is waiting for her with tea and cookies. "How'd you know I was coming?" Sarah asks, curious.

The older woman shrugs. "I'm always ready for guests. Don't think yourself special." But a smile, hidden in the corner of her mouth, eases the sting of her words.

The first time Sarah ever saw Muriel's house, the place felt like a museum. Now it's starting to feel like home, with its warm kitchen and cozy rooms full of books. Even the strange paintings on the walls have their charm, particularly the magical changing landscapes on the second floor. Sarah strongly suspects the house is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, but she hasn't seen the whole house yet. A thorough exploration of the place remains high on her list of things to do.

Sarah has never felt at home anywhere. And after years of travel and living on the road, she's not sure she'd recognize home if she found it. But she's becoming aware of the warm feeling in her chest, and the ease with which she moves through Muriel's rooms, as if Sarah is an extension of the walls. It's a feeling of home.

She's not sure if the feeling comes from the house itself, or Muriel, or the promise of magic in the air. Perhaps it comes from the loving way Boudicca looks up at her, or the expectant faces of her goblins hidden in the shadows of the room. Muriel hasn't reacted to their presence yet. Perhaps she can't see them like Sarah can.

 _Can home be more than a place?_ Sarah wonders. _Can home be a person, or people?_

She's beginning to suspect it is. For a moment, Sarah thinks of the lock of Jareth's hair, carefully tucked away in her wallet, and she's struck by a sudden burning itch to hold it again, as if it were an anchor to reality.

"What happened?" Muriel asks as she pours them tea. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Sarah wordlessly removes the medical examiner's letter and puts it on the table between them.

Muriel pauses. "Oh."

"Yeah," Sarah says. " _ **Oh**_."

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"What's the point? Mom's still dead. I said good-bye to her today ... for good, I thought." Sarah rubs her face. "Death's never the end, is it? You never get used to it. You're saying good-bye all the time."

"Grief is a process. It doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. Sometimes you have to say good-bye a few times before you're done."

"Does the pain ever go away?"

"No," Muriel says, "but it changes over time. Evolves, really, until the pain becomes a memory. Then it doesn't hurt as much. The pain becomes ... fuzzy, like you're looking through a window across the street. You recognize the shape of the emotion but can't quite make out all the details."

She says it with such conviction that it becomes obvious Muriel has lost someone. Perhaps a lot of people. The room suddenly feels warmer, and not just from the heat of the tea or the overhead lights. Sarah doesn't dare ask.

Would the Goblin King describe the pain of loss as _fuzzy_? She doubts it. She remembers the look on his face when he spoke of losing his ex-boyfriend, Richard. Jareth's face had been carefully blank, almost too much so. When he mentioned parting on good terms with his ex, Sarah had been struck by the sudden odd thought that Jareth was lying, that something horrible had happened, so horrible that he couldn't discuss it, and she thought immediately that Richard must be dead.

But Sarah hadn't asked. Some things are meant to be discussed in their own time.

Apparently, Muriel won't push Sarah either. Muriel sits and drinks her tea, drinks until Sarah finally opens the toxicology results and begins to read.

She reads for a long time.

Finally, Muriel asks, "Well?"

Sarah flips the pages upside down on the table, as if burying the words printed on their front. "Fentanyl. I guess the pills and booze weren't enough. Mom wanted to be thorough."

"Are you going to tell your father?"

"No. Maybe if he asks. He won't."

Muriel waits, perhaps expecting tears or recrimination, confusion or questions. But Sarah wears a surprisingly thoughtful expression, like a woman waking from a dream. She pulls her teacup closer, clasps it with both hands, grateful for the heat. Linda Young abandoned her family and overdosed on fentanyl. The end. It's not a nice story, Sarah thinks, but it's a true story, one Sarah didn't have a hand in. She never did.

It is (she thinks) the closest thing she'll ever feel to acceptance. She embraces it.

"You asked me about magic once," Muriel says thoughtfully, breaking her reverie.

"Did I?" Sarah asks faintly.

Her mentor (Sarah supposes that's what Muriel has become now) smiles. It's a warm smile, warmer than anything Muriel's given her so far, which unsettles Sarah a bit. "You wanted to know what the Tarot represented. It's all the same thing. Magic is life itself. We're constantly creating and recreating all the time, some of us more consciously than others. But everyone understands magic on some level. We can begin anew at any moment, and nothing limits us save our imaginations."

"But I've never done magic before ...," Sarah falters.

"Haven't you?" Muriel's gaze is hard, probing. "I don't create magicians, Sarah. I only refine what's already there."

And for the first in a very long time, Sarah doesn't know what to say. The pendulum clock in Muriel's foyer resolutely ticks away in the silence. Boudicca grumbles in her sleep. Something small and inhuman, perhaps Nix or one of her goblins, shuffles against the baseboard in the dining room. Sarah drinks it all in, but her mouth doesn't move. She's speechless.

Muriel smiles again. "It's late. Why don't you stay the night? Your room's ready for you upstairs."

* * *

But she doesn't go to bed. Not yet.

Muriel's backyard is massive by New York standards. A high fence surrounds it on all sides, edged by dogwood trees and flower bushes. The old fig tree still stands, looking the same as the night Jareth appeared from beneath it in one of Sarah's dreams. Everything looks the same, yet so much has changed.

"Lookit the stars!" squeals one of the goblins. They've all followed her outside, elbowing each other in the shadows cast by the patio lights. Sarah can hear the faint scrape of their armor and weapons against the concrete, and wonders how Muriel doesn't hear it.

"Do the stars look the same here as in the Labyrinth?" Sarah asks.

"Yes," says Lucky.

"No," insists Orson. Skeet lobs a pebble at his head.

"They're shiny and bright just like back home."

"They got different patterns though."

"Yes, yes," chirp several goblins at once. "Different patterns!"

Sarah frowns up at the sky, velvet black encrusted with diamonds. The stars seem to wink cheekily at her. "The constellations are different?"

" ** _Underground_** is different," Lucky says patiently. "It's not **_under_** anything, really. More sideways."

"Sideways?" Sarah asks.

"Yeah. Sideways." The little goblin with the sock for a hat looks at Sarah as if this should be obvious. "Is on the other side of everything. So the sky looks different there."

"Jareth, your world is really something else," Sarah murmurs to the heavens, and for a moment, she's struck by a deep longing to see it again. In the darkness of the trees and the neighborhood beyond, past the nighttime sounds of traffic and barking dogs, the air itself seems to freeze in anticipation. Even the human world tenses in the wake of the Goblin King's true name spoken aloud, as if he might burst forth at any moment like a wolf on the hunt. Most humans can't sense it, but Sarah can. She feels it now in her limbs, the curious sensation that accompanies adrenaline and arousal.

She imagines Jareth waiting on the periphery of her world right now ("sideways", Lucky called it), eager to hear his name again. _Say it, Sarah. Say it again and I'll come._ There's nothing holding him back, of course. But it would be just like him to refrain the first time to heighten the suspense. To see who would cave first.

Maybe she's not imagining it. She's begun to suspect her imagination has a firmer footing in reality than she once thought.

Sarah turns on her goblins so sharply that several of them recoil. "Muriel said I've done magic before. Have I? Do you know?"

The goblins look up at her, wary, as if she's being an idiot on purpose but they're too scared to say so.

Sarah thinks of commanding her own troop of goblins, and the luck that dogged her across five continents. How she bent a Goblin King to her will, and helped him rebuild his kingdom ( ** _their_** kingdom). How ten years of wandering somehow led her, perfectly, to the backyard of a magician and capturing the loyalty of a god. The coincidences, the serendipity. Even the storm that brewed overhead at Rutgers, that day when the Bauer boy pissed her off about her mother, when there hadn't been a single cloud in the sky. Sarah understands now ... she made that storm happen. She unconsciously molded the weather to her mood.

Sarah laughs. Her goblins retreat some more, obviously convinced she's lost her mind, which only makes Sarah laugh harder. She digs the candle stub out of her pocket, the one Muriel gave her, her first test before Muriel will train her further. "I'm a magician. I've always been a magician. It took me traveling the world to find the answer in my own backyard."

It must be the words or the rush of emotion, Sarah's not sure which, but fire suddenly erupts in her hands. She's not expecting it and nearly drops the candle in shock. The flame instantly catches the wick and burns the candle down to her fingers in a heartbeat, then congeals into a ball of feathers and flesh. Startled and gasping, Sarah throws the raven into the air, where it immediately catches flight. It pivots on the wind, cawing in delight, and wings its way to the horizon.

"Magic!" Sarah cries, and her mocking laughter could rival that of the Goblin King.

* * *

THE END

... to this story anyway. There are more to tell in this series :)


	16. Notes

**Notes (because people actually ask me about this stuff):**

Jareth's early explanation of the Creation comes from Genesis. Many of his thoughts here and throughout the story indicate he's a student of Hermeticism and Gnosticism.

Tiberius shares a name with a Roman Emperor. Our Tiberius is much more of a happy go lucky party animal than the emperor, who by all accounts was a very unhappy guy.

Akira Kurosawa's _Throne of Blood_ greatly influenced the depiction of the Grandmotherly Demon in Chapter 3. This film had a terrific impact on me growing up, and I highly recommend it. It's Kurosawa's interpretation of Macbeth transposed to feudal Japan, with the titular character played as a samurai commander who murders his lord to gain power. Kurosawa shows the Weird Sister character as a creepy old woman patiently spinning thread, like a spider lying in wait at the center of her web.

Nix simultaneously means "nothing" (in colloquial German), "to destroy" (in colloquial American English), and refers to troublesome spirits in Germanic mythology. He also shares a name with the Greek goddess of night, who was born of chaos and later gave birth to destruction and death.

 _"Can you talk when other people are around, or do you choose not to?" "Most cats can. They just don't."_ Notice how often Nix redirects Sarah's questions and appears to answer them without answering them at all. It's so dishonest, but Sarah doesn't even notice. It hints at Nix's true nature.

Jareth's human persona, David Goodman, was meant as a play on words: he's hardly a good man. I borrowed his first name from David Bowie, who played Jareth in the original film. Actually, I based a lot of Jareth during this time period on Bowie in the 1970s at the height of Bowie's alcoholism and cocaine addiction. The Thin White Duke and _The Man Who Fell To Earth_ directly influenced a lot of Jareth in chapters 12 and 13: cold, alien, reserved, and a little depressed. Rock music and Richard are the only times Jareth appears to feel alive here. Jareth also inherited Bowie's rabid reading habit, judging from how much time he spends in Princeton's library.

The Black musician who Richard and Jareth see perform is [Little Richard](https://www.rockhall.com/inductees/little-richard), "the architect of rock and roll." Bowie often said that Little Richard was his muse. In fact, Jareth's comment upon seeing Little Richard perform ("I'd heard God") is a direct quote from Bowie on how he felt at nine-years old when he first heard Little Richard sing. Note: I didn't intend for Richard to share his name with Little Richard. It just happened.

 _"I suppose it could have been worse. He originally wanted to write about the erotic content in Ganymed."_ The irony of Walt's statement is that Schubert's opera (based on Goethe's poem) is the story of a beautiful young man seduced by a god (Zeus).

 _"I knew another young man like that." "Oh?" "You call him Mozart."_ At first glance, this exchange between Jareth and Walt sounds like the former is being a smart ass to intentionally annoy the latter about Richard. After writing it, I noticed Jareth chose a very strange turn of phrase. I was struck by the sudden thought that Jareth might have personally known Mozart and was, in his own way, being transparent about what he truly is (i.e. Jareth would have called Mozart by a different name, hinting at intimacy). Walt, of course, doesn't see the dual meaning to Jareth's words.

 _"I've always said if you were born in another time, you'd be a pirate." "I only take what I'm offered, need I remind you."_ More double entendres and hidden meanings alluding to his true identity as Goblin King. I think Jareth does this partly to feel like he's getting away with something, and partly out of desperation to be seen.

Princeton's eating clubs are a real thing.

The idea of Jareth waking up after a rough night at Studio 54 was influenced by Bowie's assertion that Jareth hates being Goblin King and would much rather be hanging out "down in SoHo or something."

 _"We began to hear explosions, great explosions that shook the ground and rattled the roof over our heads. We could peek through cracks in the shed and see the electricity outside go out. I learned later this was the Warsaw Uprising."_ Sarah's new mentor, the anonymous film director, is speaking of the rebellion by the Polish Resistance, timed to coincide with the approaching Soviet army. The uprising resulted in 300,000 immediate civilian deaths, and the Nazis then retaliated by razing most of Warsaw to the ground.

Many people associate the Tarot with fortune telling. Clearly a lot of people use the cards for that purpose. But the cards are also, at heart, archetypes: symbols for the human experience describing different stages of a person's life journey. Jareth teases Sarah about this as early as the scene in her living room when she rejects him again, and he makes a one-sided joke about the Fool. She doesn't understand until much, much later that he was referring to the Tarot card and hooking her up with magic lessons.

Even later, she realizes Jareth also gave her the answer to Muriel's riddle right there in her living room, then played dumb later when Sarah asked for his help solving it. Jareth's a jerk.

I wrote the second-to-last scene of Jareth and Sarah saying goodbye to her mother in the graveyard a month before Bowie's unexpected death. The story's themes about death, loss, and rebirth suddenly struck a little too close to home. It took me another year and a half before I could start writing again, even though this story only needed one more chapter.

 _"Did no one ever tell you the tale of the fool, and what happened when he stepped off the cliff? He flew."_ Lot of symbolism in this story comparing Sarah to birds, because she is meant to parallel Jareth (whose other form is the owl). And then of course, in the final scene, Sarah performs her first act of conscious magic and creates a raven.


End file.
